


The Difference Between a Pirate and a Gentleman

by Pimento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Boats, Castiel is a naval lieutenant, Dean Winchester is a pirate captain, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Miscommunication, Pining Castiel, Pining Dean, Sailing, Slow Burn, much swash and buckle, not historically accurate, use your words boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-24 07:26:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 67,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13208850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: Art by Braezenkitty - awesome stuff - please give her all the praise for itThe Righteous Man, feared pirate captain of The Black Impala, scourge of the Caribbean, is rapidly climbing the chart of The Royal Navy’s Most Wanted list. Although, it's hard to get the message out: Woodcut wanted posters mysteriously disappear from the noticeboards as fast as they are posted, to be secreted in diaries and scrapbooks, and tales of his daring do are so popular in the taverns and brothels throughout the region, he's rapidly becoming a folk hero.Lieutenant Castiel James Milton on the other hand is relatively unknown, but well-regarded by the crew of HMS Swallow. They should be sworn enemies, of course, but then being an anglo-french aristocrat born in Tortuga to parents who should never have been together in the first place, Castiel has never been very good at ‘should’, despite his best efforts to do his ‘duty’ to his domineering grandfather, the Earl of Northumberland.By the time his real enemy catches up with Dean, it's pretty obvious to everyone that there's very little difference between a pirate and a gentleman...I SUCK AT SUMMARIES.





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

When he gets out of this, he’s going to enjoy watching Smith’s bow legs twitch as he hangs him from the nearest available naval yardarm. In fact, he might cut him down a few times, just so he can watch him hang more than once.

Lieutenant Castiel Milton flexes his fingers, trying to ease the cold cramps shooting through his hands. He’s never actually hung anyone, of course, and never will. But the defiant thought is making him feel better. He grinds his teeth together as a particularly large wave washes over the deck and the cold water rushes up over his boots and soaks his breeches as far as his thigh. He’s been so occupied in his imaginary retribution he doesn’t notice at first that he is being watched and startles at the chuckle that erupts somewhere to his right as he gasps at the freezing water trickling back down his leg.

Smith is leaning nonchalantly on the grid over the hold. One leg bent at the knee. The moonlight glints off the blade in his hand as he cuts a slice out of an apple, eating it straight from the knife. He pushes himself to his feet and strolls across the deck towards the mast. Castiel pulls himself upright as best he can, lifting his chin to stare the pirate down.

To his surprise, he realises Smith is holding out a chunk of the apple. He shakes his head and glares.

“Still not learned better manners, I see,” the pirate drawls.

“Manners maketh a gentleman,” Castiel replies, much more coolly than he feels. “I’ll take no lectures on manners from a pirate. I am not the one who tied someone to the mast for refusing to grovel and call him sir.”

“Heh, well, I’m not the one who refuses to call someone sir just because he has too much foolish pride.” Castiel rolls his eyes, because, of all things, he expected _this_ pirate to be good at comebacks. “And I think an honest apology is the least you can do for the mess you made of my baby’s jib.” His baby? The pirate had clearly eaten too many weevils.

Smith continues walking leisurely in circles like an idiot, “You realise pride won’t get you anywhere here, right?”

“Well, apples aren’t going to get me anywhere, either.” Apparently, he’s no better than the pirate at witty comebacks.

“Man’s gotta eat,” his nemesis says, waving the tip of the blade with its precariously balanced chunk of fruit. “And trust me, apples is rare aboard.”

“Well colour me flattered. What next? Fine silks and ribbons for my hair?” Castiel spits, alluding to the woman entertained aboard ship earlier. Although the way that Smith had handed her the small box of apples and bundle of haberdashery was far more deferential than the coquettish teasing he employs now.

He pauses just in front of Castiel, a thoughtful look on his face, before he shrugs unabashed and curls the fingers of his free hand into the length of Castiel’s hair, giving it a gentle tug. “T’would look pretty braided.” The smirk that spreads across the pirate’s face, draws a blush into Castiel’s cheeks. He feels the high spots of heat burning, even as he bends his neck in an attempt to pull himself from the grip. He’s grateful for the bluish cast of the moonlight that disguises the colour he knows is there, blood burning just under the skin. “Besides that particular lady considers apples and a few bits of stolen finery far better reward than gold for her silence.”

“Her silence?” Castiel splutters. “Is that what the happenny whores are calling it these days?”

He narrows his eyes as Smith throws back his head and laughs. “You think... “ he manages to say between chuckles, “You think that woman a whore? Oh my God, would that I could tell her so and throw you to her as further compensation for everything she’s done for me. Now that would be a sight.” He grips the side rail for support as he bends double to laugh.

Momentarily free from direct observation Castiel wriggles and strains against his bindings, frustrated with the lack of give. He is as well and truly fastened now as he has been the last umpteen times he tried to free himself. He drops his head back against the mast, his slight misjudgment combining with the swell of the waves to thump the back of his head a little hard into the solid oak. He lets his eyes flutter shut as sparks flash through his vision. The position he is tied in is beginning to hurt, but he isn’t going to give this man the satisfaction of seeing him swoon like some corseted society wench. He hasn’t, however, eaten for over 24 hours now and the sudden pungent sweetness of the apple has his traitorous stomach rumbling.

“Last chance,” the voice takes on a sing-song quality. He opens his eyelids to see the apple bobbing back and forth a mere inch from his nostrils, his eyes crossing as he focuses on the movement.

He tightens his lips and glowers his defiance. Meeting green eyes that dance with good humour and merriment. Bastard. Maybe he could arrange to have him drawn and quartered, as well as hung.

“Suit yourself.” He chomps the last piece, the brilliant white of surprisingly good teeth flashing in the moonlight. Smith dispatches the core overboard, with the same swift flicking motion he displayed in the sword fight earlier in the day.

With a lopsided grin of challenge the pirate faces him and staring him straight in the eye untucks the cotton tails of Castiel’s shirt. Fingers and cool metal glance the muscles of his stomach and his breath hitches involuntarily at the sensation. He exhales sharply through his nose as he realises the bastard is using _his_ shirt to clean the apple juice from the blade. Wriggling still harder, he doesn’t bother to stop the growl of annoyance this time. So close he can feel the heat of Smith’s skin, he’s too fascinated as the black of Smith’s pupils expands even further in response to the noise to take advantage of the opportunity to make this game of butting heads literal. He can smell the apple on the pirate’s breath and feels the cool stickiness of the juice against his skin as the wet cotton drops down.  

The opportunity to replace that smug look with a flattened nose is gone as Smith steps back, looking mighty pleased with himself as he yanks up his jerkin to sheath his knife. The corner of his tunic lifts to expose smooth toned skin to the soft shine of the moon. Castiel rolls his lower lip into his mouth. Because of the apple, of course. _Right._ Smith dusts his hands on his breeches and fakes a little salute.

“You know, Lieutenant Milton,” his voice softens ever so slightly, although Castiel still feels his derision, “I’d much rather you showed me just a modicum of respect in front of my crew, then I could let you lie in surroundings that befit your rank...all this,” he waves his hand airily, long strong fingers flicking, the silver glint of the moonlight striking the ring he stole from Castiel’s own hand dancing like a firefly, “really is your own fault. You left me no other choice.”

“I’m an officer in the Royal Navy and a gentleman,” Castiel says, straightening his back once more in an attempt to muster some dignity, “Call _you_ ‘sir’? I’d sooner call you a brigand. You have more chance that Davy Jones himself will saunter aboard for a parlez. Although, trust me when I say I’d be delighted to arrange a meeting for you.” He can no longer see the green eyes in the indigo shadows of his face, but he can sense the intensity of the gaze. He closes his own eyes, tired of this, suddenly. He lets his head fall back and mutters angrily. “You’ll get no sir from me, pirate.”

Smith merely stretches, his spine giving a subtle pop. “That feels good,” he purrs, rubbing it in that he is free to move, while Castiel feels his own muscles bunching and knotting from the restrictive angles. “Well then, Mister Navy, as you’ll see no reason I’ll bid you adieu and good night.” He is light on his feet and he turns back, two small hops down the steps to his own cabin, “Sleep well, sweet _gentleman_ , I’ll see you in the morning.”


	2. Lieutenant Castiel J. Milton of His Majesty's Ship: The Swallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we first properly meet the fine gentleman Lieutenant Castiel James Milton assigned to HMS Swallow.

**Marauders’ Spit - a couple of days earlier**

 

The sea was a turquoise blanket on soft white sands, curling idyllically as it caressed the beach. The rowing launch jolted only slightly as it was expertly beached and Lieutenant Milton stood smoothly and stepped lightly into the shallow waves.

It was good to be ashore. As ever the first few seconds of surreal solidity under his feet threw his balance and he allowed himself to adjust. The advantage of soft sand: It hid the slight unsteadiness of his first few steps. Most of the men were already well ahead of him, securing the vegetation line and scouting the area.

He shaded his eyes against the brilliance of the Caribbean sunshine, the brief flashing glint from the quarterdeck telling him that Captain Shurley was watching his progress through his eyeglass. Typical. How the hell he made Captain was beyond Castiel. The man was a complete fool and fools did not normally progress to captaincy or make it in the navy. Unlike the army where commissions were easy bought, the navy was a meritocracy. Societal rank and moneyed connections might get you up the gangplank, but progress from there on was mostly your own. The captain was bookish and small, spending so many hours penning his memoirs that Castiel was not sure what he was writing about, as there was not enough left of the day to actually do anything to merit recording! It was pure luck that he had landed an experienced Shipmaster like Lafitte, without him the crew might have mutinied within weeks. Shurley was not cruel, just inept and it took the steady interference of both Castiel and Lafitte to ensure that the most ridiculous of his orders did not actually filter through, whilst ensuring that he felt they had.

“It looks like it’s uninhabited, sir. Your orders?” He stared at the sailor in front of him. Even after a year on board he sometimes found the West Country dialect impenetrable, but mostly the crew made efforts to speak clearly to him. He had overheard them one night as he crept through their quarters making fun of him. Tilting their heads and frowning at one another saying Pardonnez? in a passable imitation of his accent. He was aware he was an anomaly in the Royal Navy, an anglo-french born in Tortuga did not normally join the ranks, let alone make officer, but Castiel Milton was the grandson of an English Earl. His family had ‘expectations’ and that made all the difference. Besides, when he mentioned it to Lafitte, the man’s turquoise eyes had disappeared into crinkles as he roared with laughter. “Boy, you’re made. That is affection for you pure and simple. Worry not, you’ve more than earned their respect, an English sailor is no fool: He knows when a man is worth counting.” 

Castiel turned back to the sunburned, wiry figure in front of him with a smile. “As you were, Sailor. Find fresh water and supplies and keep your eyes about you. Captain Shurley would like us to continue in our efforts to track down privateers and we shall oblige him by seeking any signs of their presence on this island, despite the knowledge that they are not likely to be interested in a spit of sand and an acre of jungle. A fresh kill or two and a few bushels of fruit will likely soften the blow.”

The sailor gave him a solid smile. “Yes, Mr Milton, sir. We’ll set to and ketch us a fine dinner.”

 

**Aboard The Swallow**

 

The meal was surprisingly good. Castiel fiddled with his silver cutlery. Even when they were down to low rations and eating ships biscuits, the Captain still insisted on an immaculate table. It made Castiel deeply uncomfortable to be waited on by men who were ten times his worth aboard ship. They were still anchored off the small island and unbeknownst to the Captain, parties of men had made the journey to and from it all day. Released to swim and explore, it was not quite the ribaldry of a port, with opportunities to revel, but it was at least a break from the monotony of the ship.

There was barely a breeze to ruffle their hair much less enough wind to fill the sails and even out here the heat was an oppressively hot blanket. Castiel dug two fingers under the collar of his shirt and grimaced at the slick of sweat against his knuckles. He longed to be stood on deck, catching what little air there was, not stuck in this dingy cabin with its foul-smelling tallow candles adding to the heat.

“Still he evades us,” the Captain was expounding. “Reports of his villainy up and down the coastline, stealing from all and sundry. Here,” he stabbed at a paper report, “He stole aboard The Amazonian and made off with the entire cargo by setting the Captain adrift in the landing boat.”

Castiel looked up politely, pausing his forkful of … well, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was eating, but it tasted well enough and it paid not to ask… halfway between plate and lip.

“The Righteous Man!” the Captain spat his disgust at the nickname. The pirate was the Captain’s latest obsession, he was determined to catch him. “Righteous be damned! He set Captain Adler adrift without his britches and barely enough crew to row him ashore! The poor man arrived in Port Royal without even a wig to cover his dignity,” he exclaimed. 

Somewhere behind him, a sailor gave a small stuttering laugh. Adler was a renowned bully; cruel, callous and pompous. His crew would be glad to be rid of him.The idea of him arriving in port stripped and humiliated was too sweet an image. Castiel dropped his fork with a clatter to cover the sound. The Captain’s attention drawn to his clumsiness, distracting him from the sniggering behind them.

“My apologies, sir,” Castiel murmured. “The grease from the meat…

The Captain eyed him suspiciously but continued to read his report. “Oh this is really not to be endured,” he exclaimed.

“Sailor, could you fetch me a clean napkin?” Castiel asked politely. “I appear to have covered this one in gravy.” Better to remove the man, than risk another chuckle and the inappropriate retribution that would surely follow.

“Not only did he steal the ship and take the entire crew hostage, he sailed her out to some godforsaken bay and set the entire cargo loose, letting them take all the ships resources. Then, he loaded her with pitch and powder, sailed her back to Port Royal and scuppered her in plain sight of the fort.”

Interesting, Castiel thought, so it appears the infamous Captain of the Impala does not like slavery. “And the crew?” 

“Oh,” the Captain glanced back disinterestedly, “some are still missing, the remainder he put ashore just south of the port before he set the fire. Really though, the sheer gall of the man.” He bounced his fist off the table, so that his wine glass toppled, the dregs splattering a pattern of red dots on the linen.

“He certainly seems to have a flair for the theatrical…” Castiel commented, righting the glass and quickly pouring some more claret. The Captain was quite the lightweight and with any luck, another full glass would have him snoring in his bunk before he could order them to sail for the last reported sighting under cover of darkness. With luck he would leave the report he was reading at the table and Castiel could spirit it away for Lafitte to read. He had served under Adler on another vessel and although he was reticent about the details, Castiel had drawn enough from their discrete conversations to suspect that his friend would enjoy reading about the man’s fate.

“Theatrical?” Captain Shurley thundered. “He’s the scourge of the Caribbean, we can’t have the likes of this hooligan riding roughshod over the rule of law. He makes a mockery of the King's Navy and I won’t stop until he is in irons. Perhaps I should order the men to spread the word that the might of the Royal Navy is on his tail and he had best lay low for his capture is certain.”

“Indeed,” Castiel said dryly, “I am sure that the word that Captain Shurley of The Swallow has avowed to set him in irons will give him pause for thought.”

A napkin floated gently onto the table beside him, as the sailor returning to the table suffered a spontaneous coughing fit. Accidentally blowing out a couple of the candles in the oversize silver candelabra and plunging one end of the table into darkness.

  
  


**The Fight for The Swallow**

 

Castiel had been sleeping in the upper bunk in the quarters he shared with Lafitte when the sounds of running feet and calls of ‘pirates ahoy’ clamouring throughout the ship startled him awake. With an exasperated sense of ‘What has he done this time?’, he grabbed his frock coat from the hook behind the door and began shoving his feet into the soft leather boots he wore aboard ship. By the time he reached the deck, it was pandemonium. Men ran in all directions, but haphazard, no hint of the structured order that they practiced every week under Lafitte’s sensible direction.

A crewman saw Castiel appear and pointed out to starboard. “A brigantine, sir, unflagged. Sighted South. At first, we thought she would continue past, but the Captain insisted we raise our flag in query and she instantly altered course.”

Castiel cursed under his breath, the damn fool! They were sitting ducks at anchor in this bay and no friendly vessel would be sailing without flags. Even if they set sail themselves, they were leeward of an outcrop and would never gain speed quick enough to outrun a brigantine renowned as they were for both speed and maneuverability. “Where’s the Master?” The sailor seemed struck dumb, eyes wide and unseeing, panic rippling just beneath the surface. “Lafitte, man, where’s Lafitte?”

The sailor swallowed and his attention snapped back. “Ashore, sir. The captain sent a landing party out at first light to fetch more guava and alligator pears.” A brief grin flitted across the wily, tanned features despite their dire situation as the Lieutenant rolled his eyes in exasperation. The crew were doing their best, but the Captain was spitting orders that contradicted their carefully rehearsed drills and the resultant muddle was making no progress towards fight or flight.

“M- Milton!” Shurley stammered as Castiel pounded his way up the ladder steps behind the shrouds and strode towards him across the quarter-deck, shouting orders over his shoulder. Sailors gave him glances and nods of relief and recognition as they returned to their duties in quick order, their movements and activities suddenly having clear purpose. “Cut the anchor,” he ordered, ignoring Captain Shurley’s weak protest.

“Better to lose an anchor than the ship, sir,” Castiel said quietly, before shouting. “Make sail.” He had barely called the order before the soft rolling thunder of unfurling canvas reached his ears. Men moved quickly through the rigging and The Swallow began slowly to move. 

“Load the stern chaser,” Castiel shouted, two men rushing past him to the carronade. “Cannon shot. Let’s try and hit their rigging to slow their pursuit.” It was an unnecessary command really, the crew knew their business and under steady command, they could act like it.

“What of Lafitte, Milton? The Royal Navy should not run away like…” The Captain began.

Castiel thought quickly, “Why don’t you signal Lafitte, sir. Tell him to secure the landing party so we can return for them once the immediate danger is past. We are the greater prize. The Swallow is of more value to a pirate than guava and pears...”

“I don’t think I care for your tone, Milton.”

Castiel swallowed his irritation, “Sorry sir, I merely wished to explain my reasoning. With luck, we may just slow our pursuers enough to hit open water. Should they reach us a broadside we will not fare well and at present, we are in danger of dropping direct into their firing line.”

As if they were somehow intent on proving him correct, he heard the report of a cannon across the shortening span of water between the two vessels, a distant wisp of smoke hovered in the air over the decks of their pursuer and with a whispering swoosh a cannonball dropped just short of their bow. The gap was still a little too wide, but it certainly concentrated everyone’s minds.

“Hold your fire,” Castiel shouted to his own gunners. “Wait and make the shots count.” The repetition of the order was rolling through the decks when Castiel was struck with a sudden inspiration. “Where’s the Quartermaster?” he shouted. A sailor paused to give his attention. The Galley hand in point of fact. Perfect. The man listened to his orders and then with a quick grin he nodded and grabbed a two-man team.

Men scrambled to fully open the sails to the available wind and The Swallow gave a lurch. The wheel spun sharply and they steered hard to port away from the bay towards the open sea. “Set a zig-zag course, keep us narrow to their firing angles. Ready with the chaser…” he paused waiting until he could see the outline of the figurehead. A jumping buck, the Impala of legend. A sudden gasp from the little man beside him indicated that The Captain, too, had spied it and made the connection. With luck, Castiel could save his foolish superior from having to make The Righteous Man’s acquaintance. 

Who was he kidding, he needed a miracle, not mere luck. The pirate was renowned for claiming his prize, a gross or more ships already captured or sunk. On the deck below a shout rang up, “Grog away!”

“Really, Lieutenant, you exceed your authority…”

Castiel ignored the blustering Captain. He would save their necks first and worry about a wounded ego later.  “Chaser fire!” he shouted.

The boom of the carronade was harsh at such close quarter and Castiel watched with some satisfaction as the cannon shot made its target, ripping through the bow spirit of the Brigantine catching and tangling into the jib sails until they sagged sideways, snapping the boom and crashing in a messy tangle of wood, rope and canvas against her bows just behind the buck. It was far from a crippling blow, but it would at least hamper the Impala’s maneuverability. 

Castiel’s reaction was a fraction too slow and almost too late when he heard the answer of the Impala’s bow chaser. He barely had time to push the captain aside as a cannonball ripped through the side rail of the main deck and shattered one of the barrels of grog waiting to be tossed over the side. The sound of splintering, shattering wood screaming into the air even as the scent of rum filled his nostrils. He felt the brief sharp sting as something hit his cheek and then inexplicably the Captain, who had regained his balance, was shoving him back, face full of petulant irritation. Castiel staggered under the unexpected push and fell heavily against the front rail of the quarterdeck. The impetus flipped him over and he had just enough time to register that he was upside down and tuck his head in before his back hit the deck. The air smacked from his lungs by the impact. 

The Swallow mounted the swell as they hit the open water away from the protection of the bay and he frantically scrabbled for purchase as he slid across the now steeply angled and very slippery deck toward the gap in the rail made by cannon fire. A sailor made a grab for him, but it was no use. Seconds later he was falling, the last thing he saw as he dropped over the edge was the Captain’s disgruntled face before he plunged into the surf. By the time he had shrugged off his heavy coat and broken the surface his own ship was receding into the distance and Castiel was at the mercy of the increasing bulk of the pirate brigantine.

 


	3. Interlude One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aboard the Amazonian - sometime in the preceding weeks

“Dear me, sailor. It appears your swabbing water has blemished the leather of my shoe.” The sneer on his face and the sarcasm in his voice were nothing unexpected as Adler made his way amidships. Cole froze, his knuckles further whitening as his grip on the deck brush tightened. 

He kept his head down. “Sorry sir,” he spoke to the fancy buckled, neatly heeled shoe and stockinged ankle in his eye-line. Press-ganged out of Sidmouth a year ago he had been the literal ‘whipping’ boy for this arsehole ever since. He was not the first he knew. His predecessors had all died. All except one. The one, that rumour had it, despite the official record of his death, might just have got away instead. The one Cole fervently wished to emulate.

The Amazonian was on the tail end of the second leg of the three-way trip from Cape Town, delivering a cargo of slaves to the plantations, before a scrub out and a fresh load of sugar canes bound for England. His escape attempt off the African coast had cost Cole a week in irons and the bite of the cat had left his back a mess of scars. He had been considering the best time to make a break for it here, maybe when they offloaded the slaves, but the Captain was already anticipating his attempt. Cole moved aside, the iron on his leg clanking as he shifted.

He winced as his head was wrenched back. “You there,” Adler asked of a crewmate. “What say you? A spell in the hold with our cargo? Or maybe a quick roll under the keel to remind this  scurvy wastrel of his manners?”

The men about him were wary. The Captain was capricious, a wrong word, a yay instead of a nay and his vile attentions could switch on a farthing. Cole closed his eyes, sweat running over his Adam’s apple, the stretch of his neck making for a painful constriction of his throat as he swallowed. 

A shout from the lookout had the Captain dropping Cole like a hot iron. “Pirates ahoy. Pirates ahoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Press-ganging was a method used by the Royal Navy to 'acquire' sailors. Contrary to myth they tended to take men with skills or capabilities rather than just snatching random men off the streets. But it was a form of kidnap, and for the purposes of this story, Captain Adler is less than particular about the caliber of the men he takes forcibly aboard his vessel.


	4. The Righteous Man: Pirate Captain of the legendary Black Impala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we first properly meet the legendary pirate and discover just how he came to have a Naval Officer as a prisoner aboard his vessel.

**The Rout of the Amazonian**

The crew sang and jigged drinking a month’s worth of naval grog in one evening. Able seaman Fitzgerald dancing to the fiddle, squeezebox and drum accompaniment with faux seduction dressed in the finery he had stolen for them from the Captain’s cabin, while his shipmates applauded and laughed. Dean stayed aboard his ship, nonchalantly leaning on the rail, smiling softly at their joyful celebration of a day well spent. 

The Amazonian had been captured without a shot fired. Captain Adler had taken one look at the chasing vessel, before ordering the flags to signal their surrender. There was not a man aboard prepared to die for Adler anyways, Dean was sure. The crew had watched silent and wary as the mismatched mottle that made up the boarding party from the Impala clambered over the port rail. 

The smithy was set to, breaking the hold locks and the fetters on the cargo of slaves as they sailed for Ascension bay. The looks on their faces bleak and unresisting, suspicion giving way to something else, until the blankness was replaced with smiles. Initially wary they had disappeared into the sprawl of vegetation, carrying those too ill to make it over the sides themselves.

Later, the officers of the Amazonian scrambled aboard the landing boat as it hung to the starboard, glad to be deprived only of their uniforms as they were lowered to the swell, with oars and rations enough to get them into port. The Captain, his pitifully sagging grey body bare to the muted burn of the setting Caribbean sun, wearing his own irons in their midst. The cheers and laughter aboard the Amazonian too loud to come from the pirates alone.

The trip to shore was short, the Amazonian’s crew was set to work to load their own ship with pitch. The Impala waiting patiently for the return of its own Captain, as the Amazonian was set alight in the main shipping lane into Port Royal. The newest recruits to the Impala, a group of sailors who did not wish to be set ashore with the rest of the Navy men, cheering the loudest as the flames jumped high towards the stars on a moonless Caribbean night.

Now they were anchored off a small island. They were safe enough here in this quiet corner of the Caribbean and a low whistle from above told him that Tran was up in the crow’s nest as was his want, keeping lookout. The whole crew deserved to enjoy the spoils of their most recent spell at sea. They worked hard and followed him loyally wherever he lead. He could not ask for a better body of men and women. Snippets of their revelry carried on the soft breeze that ruffled his short cut dirty blonde hair. He cared not one jot for convention and favoured a close crop to the longer fashion of the day. He had no truck for a pigtail or foppish locks. 

He turned quietly as Singer, his Godfather, longtime friend, and first mate, dropped his elbows onto the rail beside him, passing him a skin of what he realised with a quick sniff was probably a sweet mead. “Thought you’d prefer that to rum,” he muttered. 

Wordlessly, Dean took a long swig, before wiping his sleeve across his mouth and chin, passing it back. 

“So, feeling better now you’ve lanced the boil?”

Dean huffed a laugh, “Apt,” he commented. “Adler is a festering sack of pus.” 

He felt rather than saw Bobby’s grin in the muted darkness of the night. “It still wasn’t enough, was it,” he stated. “Are you regretting letting him live?”

They stood quietly together, Singer content to let the younger man think, he would speak when he was ready, as was his way. The gentle lap of smaller waves against the waterline below them was almost lulling, somehow louder than the hubbub of the whirling celebration.

“No,” Dean said finally. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather he had fought and died than surrendered, but I’ve no stomach for death outside the fight. I don’t believe he saw me clear enough to recognise me and at least this way none of the crew were wasted for a man of such high defect.” He shook his head, rubbing his knuckles into his tired eyes. “For me, Adler is done, he’s a pompous ass and a cowardly bully, but I have bigger fish to catch and fry.”

Bobby sighed heavily. “You know I heard tell that a man in search of revenge should first dig two graves.”

“You’re spending too much time with Tran!” Dean turned his back to the sea, leaning onto his elbows and letting the arch of his back crack his spine. A little smirk gracing his lips. “No need of shovels when the deep blue of the seven seas is your playing board.”

For a moment he thought Bobby might actually cuff him around the ears. In quiet moments alone, rank counted for nothing and he might as well still be the gangly youth freshly arrived in the small West Country harbour, little brother in tow. The weight of the world resting on shoulders just beginning to show the breadth and strength of adulthood. “Idjut boy,” his godfather said softly, scratching at his beard. “You know full well my meaning! Your father killed himself on such a crusade. I’ve no wish to watch you do the same.”

“I’m no fool, Bobby, I know that this is no life to reach a ripe old age. But I’ll have no need of anything more once ‘he’ is stopped. I’ll take what I’ve saved and keep my other promise. But before I can do that, I have to finish this. Whether it’s death at my hand or court-martial and the yardarm swing, I’ll not settle myself until Alastair Brown can do no more harm.”

 

**Aboard the Black Impala**

 

The morning sun was relatively high in the sky, but not yet over the yardarm when the crew began stirring. Dean had been up and at his charts early. His intention to take them into the gulf. He had a debt to pay and a visit to make. Tran sat beside him lazily eating a mixed bowl of mash and figs, it was hard to get the boy down from his eyrie, but he would at his Captain’s insistence relinquish his watch for a few hours to eat and rest. 

Singer ambled onto the deck and glanced at the markings on the charts. His captain was too engrossed to see the look that flitted across the weathered features, but Tran did not miss it. Carefully he wiped the remnants of his bran off his silver spoon, swilling it in his grog mug before he emptied it over the side with a quick twist of his wrist. He stowed both inside the many stitched folds of his linen shirt that acted as pockets and with a nod to Singer he was up and away through the riggings, thinking to use Singer’s arrival as a distraction. “Tran!” Dean’s drawl held a lazy warning and the youngster froze some 16ft above the deck. Without lifting his head, Dean raised one arm and pointed in the direction of the sleeping berths. With a reluctant little sigh, Tran flipped his feet from the ropes and dropped softly onto the deck. He gave a flicking salute and trailed towards the main cabin. Only Singer saw the indulgent little smile curve the corners of Dean’s mouth as he continued poring over his charts.

\---

Cole stirred awkwardly with the dry, furry tongue that denoted too much grog and not enough sleep. He shifted an arm over his face to block the red glow of direct sunlight, ignoring the protesting groan beneath him. Seconds later, he was startled wide awake with the realisation that his pillow was a stomach and the heavy iron was gone from his ankle. He opened his eyes and then the events of the previous day came back to him.

\---

He had remained on his knees on the deck, where Adler had dropped him. His raw fingers wrapped tightly around the brush when the calls of alarm and orders to surrender were replaced with hushed silence as they were boarded. The soft murmurs and whispers of alarm spreading the word. The Impala. Smith, aka The Righteous Man.

The pirate was not as feared as some, mainly because although the Impala had an impressive record of ships taken and destroyed, it was mainly renowned for limited bloodshed as part of the process. Once the fighting was done there was little risk of being killed at this man’s hands. A reputation for fairness and a sense of justice doled out in almost all of his dealings, was pretty much how the nickname had come about. Even so Cole kept his head down, it was his natural reflex after a year of torment. Even as the smithy moved past him to break the hold and the slaves first began appearing to scramble past him, he stayed on hands and knees. The odour of the hold and months of crammed confinement clagging the air, as the newly freed men and women scrabbled for the food cast across the decks as the pirates overturned crates and broke open barrels. He glanced up and met the disbelieving eyes of a young woman clutching a loaf of bread to her chest. She looked dazed, but a smile lingered on her lips as they stared at each other, until a hand gripped her arm briefly and someone muttered in a language he did not understand and then she was gone. 

In his position close to the central mast low on the main deck, half hidden by the clumsily folded sail, Cole found himself accidentally eavesdropping on a conversation he suspected no-one else was intended to hear. “... I don’t like it, Bobby… setting them loose with bare minimum rations is scarce a better fate than the one they were intended to have anyways.”

“Nonsense, boy, you give a man his freedom and call it as nothing? You are not responsible for their fate, only their freedom. Ascension Bay is as much as we can do. They can go into the jungle, at least there they stand a chance to find food and water. They may even have the good fortune to find Vic. It’s not like we can take them home...if you leave them the ship, they’ll just get captured, or sunk. This is the best chance any of them can have.”

“Dammit, I know that Bobby. I’m just saying I don’t like it is all…” the voice faded to nothing and he was suddenly aware of someone pulling at the chain on his leg. He stayed cowed. “What have we here?” Then the voice softened. “What’s your name, sailor?”

“Cole,” He swallowed, keeping his head down. “Sir.”

“And what was your crime, Cole?” The voice was deep. The tone not unkind, as the sound moved from somewhere behind him to right in front, so that all he could see was a pair of heavy scuffed boots. “I’m no friend of the Navy, Cole, nor of the ‘good’ Captain. Raise your face, sailor, and tell me. What was the hideous nature of your crime? What sees you fastened with irons to the mast and set to scrub the decks til your hands bleed?”

“This time, sir. Nothing.” He lifted his head slowly, the figure in front of him silhouetted against the brilliance of the sky. “The Captain feared I would make a break for shore. This was my punishment for thinking it.”

“And why would he presume your thoughts be of escape from this prestigious crew, I wonder.” The voice dripped sarcasm. 

\---

Cole’s human pillow groaned and shoved at his shoulder dragging him back to the present morning. He was among a pirate crew. A crew who had willingly shared their spoils with him under a Captain who had offered him free passage to the Americas. With luck and a fair wind, he would be sailing back to England a free man. He could scarce believe his good fortune.

He raised his hand to block the brilliance of the sun as someone loomed willowy thin above him. A hand extended. “Up ya come, Cole. Cap’n’s making preparations to sail. Best be showing us the wondrous skills of a navy man at the rigging.”

\---

**A Gift From the Royal Navy**

 

“Ship ahoy!” Tran’s call echoed down from the Crow’s Nest.

“Dammit,” Dean muttered. “When the hell did he sneak back out of the cabin?”

Bobby chuckled. “I don’t know why you don’t just give up and leave our Oriental Parrot be. He likes his perch.” Dean huffed a laugh and pulled his glass to his eye, as Bobby continued, “Worth a change of course?”

“Nah,” Dean shook his head. “Just a small naval vessel picking up fresh supplies. She’s barely worth a look, let alone a visit. We have places to be that merit more consideration than a shipload of naval rum and plantains.”

“She’s raised a flag of query, sir?” Fitzgerald called up from his position on the foredeck. “It looks as though she intends to give chase.”

“She’ll not catch us, man. T’would be a shit-shoveller calling suit on a lady.”  His crewmate remarked crudely. 

“She may yet report our bearing,” Bobby said softly to Dean. “There’s not many destinations on a direct line from this God-forsaken spit. It might be as well to put her down.”

Dean sighed. Singer was right, of course, as he often was. He could not risk drawing attention to his destination. “Haul the Roger,” he ordered. Hard a starboard.” With luck, he could just scare them away.

“She’s not moving, dammit,” he muttered so that only Bobby could hear. “Fire a shot across her bows,” he ordered. Dean saw the gunny’s eyebrows raise, but the man knew better than to query the order, even though he knew damned well, there was no way the shot would reach from here. His repeated command echoing across the decks.

Dean watched through his glass. The Captain of the other vessel was a pinch-faced little man, dwarfed by the officer, who was taking the steps to the command post three at a time. He let his glass run along the ship’s rail until he read the gilded lettering of her name. The Swallow. He was none the wiser, he had never heard of her. Movement caught his eye. He frowned. They were tipping barrels overboard...

“Son of a bitch!” The boom of cannon fire hit his ears almost simultaneously with the crack of the forward mast. His Baby’s forward mast. Chains and rigging and jib sails crashing heavily down behind the figurehead. It was either a lucky or a canny move, but either way, taking out the jib sails would leave the rudder with far more work to do.

“Fire!” he heard Singer shout. He raised his glass again in time to see the cannonball shatter into her side rail. The officer he had watched moments before had pushed the Captain aside, but it seemed this was not to the man’s liking. Inexplicably he was shoving his own officer backward. Dean blinked in surprise as he watched the tall figure flip over the rail in a neat somersault. He winced at the force with which he hit the deck. Across the water, he heard the distant call of “Man overboard,” and caught sight of a dark coated figure falling into the surf just as the Swallow lurched away into the open sea. 

He called his crew to haul in the sails, his own objective to run the naval ship to sea accomplished. One of the crew on the port rail called and pointed and Dean followed his line. The head and shoulders of the lost sailor had appeared in the surf, bobbing amidst a dozen barrels. “Haul him in,” Dean shouted. “Let us see what scraps they have left behind amongst their jettison”

Bobby looked at him questioningly.  “I’ll not leave a man to drown for want of a few minutes delay Bobby. We’ll need to make good on the jib anyways. Besides, he’s an officer, there may be a reward for his return.”

 


	5. Interlude Two

**The Four Winds Inn**

 

The quill was blunting. It's scratch on the scraps of parchment becoming more pronounced until the sharpened nib finally broke away, leaving a heavy blob of ink blemishing the otherwise neat curl of script. Muttering a curse, albeit under his breath, for the woman who was for all intents and purposes a mother to him was not fond of coarse language, he grabbed at a sheet of blotting paper.

The hefty oak door swung open and the very same entered the bar, striding purposefully towards the fireplace table where he sat amongst his scattered books and scrolls. He hit the table with his boot, startling the young blond girl sat in the other corner of the fireplace. The book on navigation she had cunningly hidden from view against a table leg while she pretended to be working on her sampler, closed onto the floor with a thump. He made heavy pretence of retrieving it as if he had fumbled it as he put his study books away. The two shared a look and he grinned at her under a heavy curtain of hair. 

“Ash?” The older woman called as she took in the scene. “What the hell are you doing letting these children stay up half the night?”

Ash, raising his head from the bar and wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth, gave a bemused shrug. 

She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. “Go on, git now,” she said fondly, face softening into a smile as she dropped a kiss on the young girl’s hair. “To bed, young lady.”

Her daughter knew better than to argue. She folded her sampler and stowed it in the corner, lighting a candle and slotting it into a brass carrying stick, before making her way reluctantly up the stairs.

As soon as the girl was gone, her mother held out a letter towards the young man. “Take it up with you.” He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. “I’ve got no answers to any questions you may have, Samuel. There’s nothing more for me to tell that ain’t writ in there. You got five seconds to get your butt moving to bed, or it will wait to be read til morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, scooting before she could change her mind.

\---

Ash set about pouring two glasses of whiskey into a pair of tumblers as she eased herself onto a stool. They exchanged nothing of significance until she was sure the two youngsters were out of earshot.

“Well?” Ash asked. “What news of the crew of the bonny Impala? What nature of good things and spoils have they given us this time?”

Ellen smiled. “Fine silks, jewels and a full set of officers’ uniforms to dismantle and dispose of. Not to mention a crate of apples and a barrel or two of Navy rum.”

“And are the rumours true? Did he really set Adler adrift in his own landing boat?”

Ellen gave a hearty chuckle and downed her whiskey. “He sure did. It appears Captain Adler really liked epaulets, his uniform alone should yield enough ribbon and frill to skirt the wagon!”

Ash refilled her beaker, contemplating his own drink, swirling the amber fluid round and round until it spilled over the rim and pebbled on the dark patina of the bar. 

“Spit it out, Ash,” she murmured, throwing back the fresh fill.

“He didn’t kill him. I thought… well… I thought he’d not be satisfied with such a subtle revenge.”

This time Ellen’s laugh was a whole body exercise. “Indeed, subtle is not something usually associated with that boy, but for his many faults, he’s is no murderer. The man surrendered. And I think his utter humiliation is a more fitting revenge for the things he did. The man is an embarrassment to the Commodore  _ and _ the Admiralty. They’ll not give him another vessel now, he’s a laughing stock. His disgrace is far more fitting than an honourable death.”

“But is it enough?” Ash asked solemnly. Ellen rolled her eyes in lieu of an answer and tapped her empty tumbler on the bar to hint at his tardiness in refilling it.

“Don’t make me beg for my own grog, Ash.”

The silence, only interrupted by the glug of liquor in the neck of the bottle, stretched between them. Eventually, Ash asked, “Well?” 

Ellen sighed. Playing dumb was not going to get Ash off her case. “Bobby says Dean is done with Adler. His score is settled, but he’s still fixing to trace Alastair. And that won’t be closed so easy, nor I suspect without a bloody ending.”

“You know young Sam is no fool. Just how long does Dean think he can keep all this from him?” he pressed.

“As long as possible.” Ash jumped slightly at the force of her words. Ellen’s face softened and she raised her hand in apology. “The less that boy knows about what happened to his parents the better. One Winchester hell-bent on revenge is plenty enough trouble for the Seas of the Caribbean. Now you best set to and get this bar shipshape. Singer’s following me aboard the second wagon and he won’t be none too happy if this place ain’t just as he left it.”


	6. Master Benjamin Lafitte, Shipsmaster of HMS Swallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we learn more of Benny Lafitte and his attempt to rescue the good Lieutenant from ill-treatment at the hands of the pirate crew.

**The Difference Between a Gentleman and a Pirate**

 

“Are you sure about this, sir?”

Benny Lafitte looked at the able man crouched next to him behind the outcrop of rocks at the edge of the bay. The Swallow was a speck on the horizon, her well kept sails catching what wind there was to carry her to safety. 

“That I am, Eli. You carry the boat to the leeward side and await the return of The Swallow. If neither she nor I make show by nightfall and weather permitting, you set course South West under the shade of night and row straight, you should hit Cuba by morning.”

The sailor, well versed in the traditions of the Navy, gave Lafitte a look that contained considerably more ‘eyeball’ than he would ever have dared give any other officer. They had known each other for over a decade. Reassigned to the Swallow together after the disbandment of the crew of their previous vessel..

“Out with it,” Benny said, scratching at his beard. 

“I’d be a liar if I said I liked this Benny,” his mate said finally. “The lieutenant is a good lad, but climbing aboard a vessel full of pirates… it’s plain foolhardy.”

\---

 

“It’s grog.” The pirate, Carter, straightened his back and twisted the grip he had just tapped into the uppermost barrel. He counted quickly. They had pulled ten barrels from the water, all marked the same. “They only been and chucked their bleeding grog overboard! Well that’s a fine present for the Navy to leave us and no mistake. Better than this other package.” 

The ‘package’ was dripping wet, a shirt fine enough to be transparent in the places where it touched his skin, steamed slightly in the Caribbean sunshine. He stood watching them warily from under his brows, chest still heaving slightly from the exertion of pulling himself aboard, palms down, poised. “Best call the Captain to decide where he wants his ‘gift’.” The pirate gave the man a little shove. “I suspect he may have a word or two to say on the subject of that trick with the cannon shot.” 

The pirate merely laughed as the bedraggled man raised his chin and glared at him. “If looks could kill, eh? He’s a proud one and no mistake.” With a flourish, the pirate gave an elaborate bow and signaled for his prisoner to proceed. “After you, my pretty.” He was so busy milking the chuckles and cat calling of his audience, that he missed the subtle change in the man ahead of him. One minute he was enjoying the laughter of his comrades and the next he was swallowing very, very carefully, as too much movement of his Adam’s apple was likely to take the scratch of his own blade from a mere warning to something much more immediately life-threatening.

“I may be ‘pretty’,” the man growled, “but I think ‘Sir” is a more appropriate address for a Naval Lieutenant and the son of a Gentleman. What say you now, pirate? Am I as ‘pretty’ up close?”

“N--no...erm…” the weapon deepened its press to his throat, a fraction shy of actually breaking the skin. He stared into eyes, that despite giving the sea a run for its money for blueness, held no comfort. The stance was that of a skilled man. Indeed, it took immense skill to hold a blade this close without a nick aboard the rolling deck of a vessel.  The pirate held every muscle tense, as the eyes narrowed and the man tilted his head slightly. “No? Am I ugly then?”

“Erm… that is… yes…you are pretty, very pretty...erm.” His brain was short-circuiting, was he meant to flatter and say yes, or admit he was mistaken? Vaguely he could hear the muffled giggles of his comrades. The bastards were enjoying the show. “Erm… Sir? Sir!” his voice squeaked with relief as the blade eased a fraction.

\---

Castiel took a step backward. The donor of the blade fell back amongst his fellows, shoulders dropping in relief. 

“That’s hardly a fair way to thank a man for saving you from drowning.” The lazy drawl was full of humour. “And if anyone aboard  _ my _ ship is to be called Sir. It would be me.”

Dropping lightly onto the deck from over a pile of sail, at first he was just a silhouette. Tall. Easily as tall as Castiel himself, maybe slightly taller. Well made, too. He moved with easy athleticism across the deck. No longer a dark shadow against the sun, comfortably dressed in a soft blue shirt and dark leggings tightly wrapped, emphasising the slight bow of his legs and their sleek shape. He was surprisingly handsome. Not at all what Castiel expected. Skin, where it was visible softly tanned and sprinkled with freckles, hair glinting gold in places. “So beloved by the Sun, to be kissed and blessed by Angels.” It was how his father had described his mother, her colouring in his paintings of her so similar to the man before him. Castiel kicked the fanciful notion aside and let his knees take the buck of the deck as the ship turned against the swell. The tip of the blade steady, as he turned his back to the rail better to keep all the pirates in his eye-line. 

\---

In spite of himself, Dean was impressed. This man could handle a blade and the way he had reduced and ridiculed Carter after disarming him? He had real spirit. There was sport to be had here. 

Soaked to the skin, surrounded by pirates aboard a pirate vessel and still, he was poised for a fight. The combined effect of his colouring and finely sculpted features was - Carter was entirely correct, there was no other word for it - pretty. Soft pink lips, currently set with determination, beneath brilliant blue eyes, squinting against the brilliance of the light, and a subtle shadow of dark stubble on a strong jawline. He was tall and well built. Surprisingly graceful, his blade and stance steady despite his spill in the drink. “I see nothing here to merit such respect.” The voice was deep, deceptively gravelly and carried a trace of… well, of all things unexpected… French. 

“Oh, really.” Dean tried and failed to stop the smile that automatically flicked the corners of his lips. “You don’t think as Captain, a leader of men, the master of all you survey, including this fine vessel … I merit a modicum of respect?”

“A buttercup may shine amongst the weeds, it still does not make it worthy of the same title as a rose.”

This time Dean let the grin shine. “A skillful wordsmith. I’m more a man of deeds myself. But perhaps you are a man who only learns by demonstration. Let me school you.” His adversary had not once let his guard slip. He gestured to his side and was furnished with a blade. He gave it a swift experimental flick. This was going to be fun. Well, as much fun as you could have playing with sharpened metal. 

“Perhaps it is you who needs schooling.” The tip of the blade cut the air with a satisfying swoosh as the navy man expertly flexed it. “Allow me to teach you the difference between a pirate and a gentleman.”

Dean felt his own eyes narrow. Hell, who was he kidding, the element of danger was what made it so much fun.

\---

From his position at the helm, Bobby heard the tell-tale clash of steel. He glanced upwards and was met with Tran’s upside down grin. He rolled his eyes and sighed. Whatever the damned fool was about this time, he was not in any real danger. If he were, Tran would not be so relaxed. He glanced back again and saw question in the dark eyes. He nodded. “Let him have his nose,” he growled softly, “But stop it before anyone gets hurt.” With a wider grin and nod, Tran was scampering away across the rigging.

\---

They fought back and forth. Neither really gaining much. It was clear that neither was really intent on injuring the other, only on gaining the upper hand and disarming his opponent. More a sparring match than a fight to the death. The remarks and jibes became fewer as their exertions became greater. One or two of the pirates fell away to their duties, bored with all this sparring.

Castiel drove Smith back, deeper into the midst of his own precious ship. Despite using everything at their disposal, it was still more fencing than fighting. With a flourish of triumph, Castiel caught the underside of the blade guard and flicked the weapon loose of the pirate Captain’s grip. He looked up from his blade, expecting to see a man conceding to his superior swordsmanship, what he met was the shit-eating grin of victory. Puzzled, he glanced about him, just in time to see a flash of movement from above as rope spun around him, swirling ever downward in a series of coils, until he was stood powerless, wrapped from shoulder to wrist.

“Now, see,” the insufferable bastard drew closer and applied a little pressure to his fingers to try and force the sword from his grip, where it was trapped mid-thigh against his own leg, “this is your first lesson, Lieutenant, never assume a pirate will play fair.” 

Castiel struggled, somewhere above him a sing-song voice called. “Should I haul our catch off his feet, or leave him dangling just in touch with the deck.  _ SIR?”  _ The deliberate emphasis was not lost on Castiel.

“That depends,” Smith said, face still twitching with amusement. “Are you ready to acknowledge my status and make amends for the damage you have done?”

His only answer was a growl of frustration and continued struggling. “Say you’re sorry, call me sir and I’ll order your puppet master to set you loose.”

“Never,” Castiel said, clamping his mouth shut in a grim line. It was childish. What would it cost him to say sir? But he was mad, and an angry Castiel could out-stubborn a mule. He was always his own worst enemy when he was enraged, it was part of the reason he hated to be teased. His strength was in his quick tactical thinking and strategic planning. He did not like the sensation of losing control to his emotions.

The pirate looked more closely at the hand holding the sword and applied just a little extra pressure, briefly Castiel grimaced and bore the pain, but his grip weakened and the borrowed weapon fell to the deck with a clatter, kicked away to prevent any attempt to get it back. 

“What have we here? How kind… this will do for an initial attempt at reparation.” Castiel tried not to let his dismay show as the pirate began sliding the silver ring that belonged to his mother from his extended finger. He tried and failed to crumple his fist to protect it. It was the only jewelry that Castiel owned, let alone wore. “That will buy me a fine new sail… I think you will have to work off the rest. When you have calmed down enough to see sense, that is.”

Carter was eyeing his Captain cautiously as he retrieved his blade. His face flushed again as his fingers closed over the grip. He looked contrite under Smith’s gaze, but the look he shot Castiel was pure malice.

“Tie him to the mast,” Smith ordered quickly. “He stays there until he’s ready to apologise.” 

\---

Castiel watched the comings and goings of the day. They sailed hard all morning. Making landfall mid afternoon. He watched as the majority of the grog he had used as a diversionary tactic was passed over the rail. He watched as a woman boarded. He watched as she disappeared into the Captain’s cabin. He watched as the woman left again. He watched piles of naval uniforms and a small trunk lowered to a second boat. He watched a landing party join it and head for the shore shortly after. Activity on the boat gradually dwindled and still, he remained tied fast to the main mast. 

\---

He woke the next morning with the first sounds of movement amongst the crew, his shirt stuck to his skin with the remnants of the apple juice where Smith had used his shirt as a rag to wipe his blade as he bade him a good night. His whole body ached and much as he flexed his hands and feet they were continuing to alternate between painful cramps and numbness. Alone for a moment, he let his head drop and grimaced.

A shadow fell across his boots. “Captain says you may have wish to relieve yourself, Mister Navy.” He stared up into the dark cruel eyes of the crewman he knew to be Carter. The man who’s weapon he had stolen only yesterday. Castiel kept his breathing level, the malice in the eyes was obvious as the man placed a bucket at Castiel’s feet. He dropped his head close and hissed low and menacing as he ran a dagger under Castiel’s chin. “Now I’d love nothing better than to cut you loose and tell the Captain I had to run you through because you decided to play the clever dick again. But orders is orders.”

Humiliation and impotent rage burned through Castiel’s cheeks as Carter used his dagger and a fist to break open the front of his breeches. He dropped his head so that the nasty smirk was blurred in his peripheral vision as the man’s dirt-encrusted fingers slid over his skin, pulling him free of his breeches, breathing hot foul smelling breath against his neck. Carter slid to the side, letting the point of the blade, linger and drag in the crease between thigh and groin.

There was precious little room for modesty aboard ship, but this man was making the most of this small opportunity for revenge. Castiel screwed his eyes shut and released his bladder, his flow hitting the fluid in the bucket the air filling with the rancid smell of ammonia. Once he had finished, Carter stepped across in front of him again, gripping hard and giving a long pulling squeeze. “Hm… does you like that, Mister Navy.” He sniggered at Castiel’s pained intake of breath. “See I heard tell, you were straight out of Tortuga when you joined the Navy, Frenchie, but jokes on them, ain’t it. There’s nothing comes out ‘straight’ from Tortuga, does it? I bets a pretty thing like you was plenty popular aboard ship on them long voyages. Perhaps I should come back after dark and test the theory.” 

“Carter?” Smith was strolling from his cabin. “What are you at?”

“Just giving the prisoner some relief, sir.” 

Castiel lifted his head as Carter relinquished his grip and hastily shoved his pants back together. Smith did not look happy. “I gave those orders to Fitzgerald. Where is he?”

“Finishing his duties at the jib, sir. I offered to…” Carter stepped away, the rest of his sentence lost. 

Smith’s voice a good octave lower carried better than his man’s so that Castiel heard him clearly as he said, “I should have thought that yesterday’s lesson would be enough for you Carter. You’re to leave the prisoner to those with who know the difference between being a man and being an ass. Empty that bucket and return to your own duties. I’ll deal with Garth later.”

 

**Officers Reunite**

 

Exhaustion had finally overcome discomfort after Smith had wished him a second adieu after his continued refusal to accept his ‘lesson’ and retired to his own bed, apparently content to leave Castiel fastened to the mast for another night.

He was jolted awake, by fingers pressing tight and hard over his mouth. Expecting the foul presence of Carter, he fought to free his mouth, until he recognised the hissing tone in his ear and instantly froze. “Please, sir… Castiel… quiet now or you’ll give us away. I’m sorry to leave it so long, but I’ve had to pick my moment to leave my hidey hole.”

He turned his head, relief etched in the angular shadows of violet, blue and indigo. “Benny,” he croaked, even as the ropes loosened and he slumped sideways, muscles unable to bear his weight. Carefully, Benny half pulled, half dragged him into the dark shadows behind them.

A cup pressed to his lips and he drank greedily, feeling the water soothe his cracked and sore throat. Lafitte rubbed hard at his calves, shaking the cramping muscles, seeking to stimulate them back into life as Castiel tried to stretch his feet. Lip blanching with the pain as the returning sensation ran, bushfire, through the nerves.

“How…” he started to ask, in a bruised whisper.

Benny pulled a finger to his lips and pointed upwards. Castiel bent his neck following the line of his finger towards the crow’s nest high above them. Only once he was so close that Castiel could feel the breath of his speech on the lobe of his ear did Benny make another sound. “The little mouse in that eyrie misses nothing.” He glanced upwards, listening for sounds of movement, but aside the noises of a ship at rest, there was nothing to be heard. “How are your legs? Think you can move yet? There’s a small boat hung just below the quarter-deck, but we’ll have to both climb down to it and be quiet about it. The ladder runs down past the Captain’s cabin.”

Castiel nodded. There was no other option, there was no way that Benny, strong as he was could lower the weight of both the boat  _ and _ a full grown man noiselessly to the water.

“Wait here. I’ll check the coast is clear then whistle a call.” 

The moon had disappeared behind a bank of cloud, driving the deck into deeper shadows. Benny moved swiftly, slipping between a folded sail and a two-tier stack of four barrels. Light on his feet and agile despite his size, he disappeared into the gloom, formed a brief outline against the backdrop provided by the starlit horizon as he topped the stairs to the quarterdeck and then Castiel was alone. Only the fact that he wasn’t still upright and tied tight to the mast to prove to himself that Benny hadn’t been a hallucination. He tested his feet carefully. They were reassuringly painful, sinew and cartilage still playing silly beggars after hours of inactivity, but better that than lumps of deadened flesh.

He peered around the side of the crate, straining for any hint of sound. Benny seemed to have been gone for a long time, or was it just the tension of the moment making time stretch? He gradually straightened up, head spinning. Lack of food, he realised. Hot pinches prickled his ears, circles of phantom lights sparking in his vision. He gripped at a nearby crate for balance, his skin cold and clammy despite the heat of the night. His inner monologue berating his feeble response to such trifling hardship.

A low whistle called to him from the stern. He edged to the rail and forced his protesting muscles into a low slink. To his own ears, he sounded like a herd of tap dancing oxen. He froze, ears catching a splash as something, somewhere, broke the surface. His own breathing sounded to him like a two-man saw. Even his heartbeat seemed to be the boom and snare of a marching rhythm. The sky was a sparkling field above him, but it still gave little light to see by, with the moon covered with the only patch of cloud. He peered back along the main deck towards the forecastle where it loomed a darker patch of near black, amidst the darkness. His brain was working overtime to make sense of the subtle variations. He slid his hand along the smooth wood of the rail until it met the upward slant at the side of the steps, finding the tread with his feet and keeping close to the risers where there was less give so as to reduce the likelihood of a creaking stair to give him away. He paused halfway before his head cleared the edge of the deck. Still, he could hear nothing but the sounds of the ship.

The shadows were sharpening and he realised with a rise of panic that the cloud over the moon was thinning. If he didn’t clear these steps and duck down onto the deck before it made its full appearance he might as well be stood in the limelight of a stage. He moved as quickly as the need for quiet would let him, wanting nothing more than to run and throw himself flat on the higher deck. 

When the moon finally did clear the cloud and shone comparatively bright on the contents of the quarterdeck he contemplated throwing himself overboard instead. 

“Nice of you to join us.” 

Benny stared up at him apologetically from his position on his knees, his hands firmly clasped behind his neck under the sinister black holed aim of a flintlock.

“Go wake the Captain, Garth.” The lanky form made towards the steps. “Gently, boy. If you value your nose.” With a mock salute, all eyes and teeth in the light of the moon, he gripped the rails and slid down to the deck.

Below them, they could hear the muffled noises as he entered the Captain’s cabin, somewhere beneath their feet. Castiel eyed the distances, but even fully mobile and armed they would be outnumbered three to two. He let his gaze flick quickly assessing the men before him. Tran, the sneaky little mouse was sitting cross-legged but watchful just to one side of the flag. A stocky man held the pistol unwavering. His attention fully on Benny. The older man, who was giving the orders stood calmly, watching the whole scene. He wore his hat at an angle, all the better to emphasize the soft leather eye-patch he was sporting. Short of a parrot or a monkey on his shoulder he could not look much more like the colourful cartoons of a pirate that he had laughed at as a boy in school, to the point that Castiel wanted to kick his shins to check if one of them thunked like a stout bow. “You could just let him go,” Castiel appealed quietly. “My family will pay for my release and I will lay my oath that I will comply with…”

“That’s very sweet of you, Lieutenant,” the now familiar mocking drawl interrupted him, “But I decide what happens to prisoners onboard my ship. We really are going to have to work on your knowledge of etiquette for all your gentlemanly pretense…” his voice petered out mid-sentence, and Castiel turned to look at him with some astonishment, matched it seemed by everyone else on deck bar one.

Pushing the pistol aside, the Captain was pulling Benny to his feet and drawing him into a full body hug. The two men patted backs and threw each other to arm's length, greeting more like long lost brothers than a pirate and a Naval Shipmaster. 

Castiel realised too late that he could no longer see, the firework wheels of light blazing across the black of his vision, his ears burned, roaring with the sound of his own blood and then he was falling.

 

**A Breakfast Fit for The Grandson of an Earl**

 

His first awareness was that he was being carried (somewhat embarrassingly) bridal style. He had little time to think about this, let alone do anything about it when he was lowered gently onto a soft bunk. Cool material rustling in his ear and brushing gently on the bare skin of his arm, neck, and face.

“Brandy!” The order was sharp. 

He heard a groan and realised with a further pang of embarrassment that it had come from his own throat. He threw his arm up over his face, only to have it gently but firmly gripped and pushed back to his side.

“Lay still Lieutenant.” Benny. Goddammit, Benny had been hugging that bastard Captain. He opened his eyes, only to find five eyes staring back at him, all showing varying degrees of concern. Solid oak paneling and a plush, if faded, curl of deep blue velvet had replaced the starlit sparkle of the night sky over his head. He opened his mouth to comment only to feel the press of metal against his lip, a hand cupping the back of his head and raising it up. 

The liquid flooded his mouth, burning warmth filling his nose with the rich scent of cognac, his taste buds singing with it. “Swallow it.” The older man was taking no nonsense, so Castiel obliged. He blinked, the aftertaste telling him that this was quality liquor, not port swill. He was aboard a pirate ship.. What did he expect? If you don’t have to pay, you can steal all the quality you want. He squirmed again as a further deep spoonful of cognac was forced past his lips.

“Let me up,” he managed to protest after he swallowed. Smith and Benny instantly released their grip on his arms and drew back, palms lifting slowly. He wriggled around, but allowed the older man to assist him as he ran a shaky hand over his face. He pushed the spoon away, but with a mumble let the bottle be lifted to his lip. It really was the good stuff.

“When did you last eat, boy?” He was about to protest that he was not a boy, but one look into the rheumy eye full of concern, stilled the words in his throat. “On The Swallow,” he croaked. He took the opportunity to take ownership of the bottle of brandy and knocked back a good, long swig. He wasn’t sure whether it was the brandy that was blurring his vision, but he didn’t really care.

“Two days ago?” the older man roared. 

Was it really two days already? Ha, he shook his head, no time for breakfast, he was woken from his bunk by the skirmish. “Evenin’ meal with Cap’n Shurley,” he took another slug from the bottle. “S’three days.”

“I suppose it was your idjut idea to leave him tied to that mast without food or water.” Castiel tried not to laugh. The Captain of the Black Impala, feared pirate, blinked, more like a scalded child than the scourge of the Caribbean. Castiel used their lack of attention in his direction to steal another swig of cognac.

“I offered him an apple, Bobby. And it’s not like I wasn’t checking on him...” the captain started feebly in his own defense. Blanching and looking away, under the resultant accusatory one-eyed stare. 

“I wouldna call ‘m sir.” Castiel added helpfully. He grumbled as the older man softly removed the brandy bottle from his grip as he swallowed a further slug. “S’a pirate, not an occi… occi…wha’sname...” the word would not come. Ah well. “Occifer,” he declared. Close enough. 

The cabin door was closing again, behind an unseen visitor and Bobby sat on the side of the bunk with a bowl in his hand. He pushed it into Castiel’s hand, along with the spoon. “Now you eat, slowly. Let your stomach time to get used to each bite, lest you return the whole lot. Not that he doesn’t deserve a bunk full of puke, but t’will go easier on you if you keep it all down.” 

Castiel made a reach for the bottle. “Na-uh,” Bobby admonished him far more gently than the tone he set on the Captain, warm calloused fingers pushing his outstretched arm back into the bunk. “Mash and fruit first, boy, then we’ll see about more brandy.”

\---

His stomach at first seemingly grateful for both the brandy and the food had decided shortly afterward to become a battleground. He dozed fitfully, shivering and sweating as his gut twisted and grumbled its malcontent.

Bobby had finally sent for Tran. He had produced a foul-smelling, chalk tasting concoction , forced Castiel to drink a fair quantity of it and then made him lay back down. The pains in his body drifted away even as the twist in his guts settled and he found himself, neither awake nor asleep, in a pink, warm haze listening to the murmur of conversation as the three men talked.

“The Navy is none-the-wiser to your true origins, rumours abound, but the connection between the boy taken from Lyme Regis and the fearsome pirate Dean Smith is unrealised, let alone your true identity. It helps that they thought you dead…” Castiel could picture Benny’s grim smile just from the tone of his voice. “There are as many myths and stories about your escape as there are men to tell them, but not a one has it right. Even I only guessed that it might be you. I prayed our paths would never cross in the wrong context, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“Yeah, well. Perhaps their determination to prove I had no worth or identity and to make me forget it myself paid off,” his voice was firm, but the hint of emotion was as clear to those in the know as the hint of a crack in an otherwise pure bell. “I heard after… a long time after… that you had been punished for your part in it… I’m sorry Benny.”

“Don’t be,” Benny said softly. “I got off light. Some punishment to be removed from that bastard’s command. Transferred to a smaller ship with my only other friend on board. Tis true, Shurley is just about the world’s most inept Captain, but trust me, it’s a massive improvement. I was promoted to Ship’s Master inside a season, and then they sent us Castiel here as a replacement officer and it’s gone from strength to strength. He’s a good man and between us and the crew: We sail that ship despite the Captain. So… honestly… saving you aside, it’s the best darn thing I ever did standing up to Brown and Adler.”

Adler. Rowed naked into Port Royal. Castiel gave a little snigger.

The men fell silent. “S’ he all right?” Aw, was that concern in his voice. “Honestly Bobby. Don’t look at me like that. I thought he was fine. I set Tran to keep watch…”

“Well, idjut. Mebbe next time, just confine him to your cabin or something.”

“That’s hardly a way to teach him a lesson… Here, let me lock you in this comfortable room and…”

“It’s a damned sight better than nearly killin’ him over what boils down to a pissin’ contest. Honestly, I thought I raised you better ‘n that. You know I don’t like pullin’ family status over rank aboard ship. But I do expect you to use the brains you were blessed with.”

“Wouldn’t have worked anyways,” Benny said quietly, voice tinged with fondness. “He’s the only damned fool I ever met, who’d match you for stubborn and believe me… that is saying something.”

\---

Castiel was comfortable. His head was vaguely fuzzy. He tried to open his eyes and squinted against the brilliance of the light as he lifted his head from what felt like an extremely plump, down-filled pillow. A well apportioned, muscular figure was stood at the window, sipping at a mug. But it was his back that held Castiel’s attention. It was a mess of scars. He closed his eyes against the sight and let his head flop back into the pillow. The sound seemed to have attracted the man’s attention. He heard him walk softly back into the room.

“Morning sunshine.” Castiel sat up slowly, murmuring a quiet thank you when the remnants of what smelled enticingly like hot coffee and molasses hit his nostrils. The mug was warm in his hands. The captain was already pulling his tunic straight, lifting his jerkin from the back of a chair.  He smiled at Castiel, as he caught him looking. “Like what you see?” he asked, mocking, a crooked grin on his face.

Castiel blushed, but smiled into the mug. There was a knock at the door and two steaming plates were delivered. Castiel’s stomach growled in appreciation at the smell. “Bobby and Benny have already eaten, they’re topside,” he nodded his head in the direction of the quarterdeck above their heads.” I volunteered to watch the sleeping beauty…”

Castiel shrugged and twisted to drop his feet to the floor, he realised with a start that he was naked. 

“Here,” the Captain threw a small bundle of clothes onto the bunk. “You’re tall for a navy man, but these should fit. Bobby says your shirt is salvageable, but your breeches are torn beyond darning.” His voice dropped as he turned back to the table and took his seat. “I’m… sorry…” he began, clearing his throat and sounding awkward, “for what Carter… for what he suggested… I would never have allowed him near you. He tricked Garth and… “ he swallowed hard. Castiel just stared at him, the bundle of clothes on his lap, one eyebrow quirked in amusement at the blush that seemed to make the smattering of freckles across the captain’s face even more prominent. He’d dried. Castiel let the silence grow. Working to school his features as the captain flicked a glance in his direction, eyes scanning slowly upwards. It appeared Castiel was not the only one who liked what he saw...

\---

Dean had already had his suspicions about Carter and his abusive behaviour. He had never tried anything with any of the crew as far as Dean knew, but he had a cruel streak that Dean could not stomach. He had decided to pay him his due and set him ashore at the next port they hit, even before he caught him taking advantage. So he had not needed the look on Bobby’s face as he walked across the cabin after efficiently undressing the now comatose Naval Officer and checking him carefully for other wounds. Seeing the tears in the officer’s breeches had chilled him to his core. Guilt burned at him. Even so, for some reason, it was important to him that this man, of all people, understand just how unacceptable he found his crewman’s behaviour.

The apology was not flowing well, his words were not conveying his genuine distress, embarrassed with his own lack of eloquence he glanced at the lieutenant, even as his words dried. He sat, long legs dangling from the bunk, partly covered by a twist of sheeting with the bundle of clothing Dean had thrown to him balled in his lap. There was altogether too much tanned skin on view. He swallowed as the upward sweep of his gaze snagged on a small freckle mole on the muscular chest, just slightly askew of a nipple. God, he was thinking about his nipple. Stop thinking… nipples. He could feel the blush in his cheeks deepening even further and his throat made an exceedingly unmanly noise as he cleared it. 

He forced his own gaze up and was rewarded with a quick glimpse of an arched eyebrow and a sparkle of amusement in those, oh so, blue eyes, before the lieutenant’s face wiped clean. Oh, so that was the game! He was trying to make a genuine apology here… he swallowed. 

Still. The apology was due. “I’m sorry. It should never have happened. I should never have  _ let _ it happen.”

The man merely nodded his acceptance and began dressing quickly. He still hadn’t spoken a word. Dean tried and failed not to mourn the loss of all that fine bare flesh as the lieutenant pulled the simple tunic down over his body. It was a snug fit. Stop it, you pervert. Stop it. Don’t look for nipples… do NOT… He closed his eyes tight shut and only opened them when he was sure he had the measure of his own wayward thoughts.

The officer was at long last fully dressed. He fiddled with the bindings at the back of his calf, brow furrowing as he lifted first one leg then the other looking at the trailing lengths quizzically. Dean felt the laugh bubbling up from his gut, as Lieutenant Milton tilted his head, squinting at him. “Garth is busy polishing your boots. Soon as you get ‘em back, I’ll demonstrate the strapping.” He pushed a chair around with his own booted foot. “Come on. Come and eat before it goes cold. S’not every day we get a breakfast fit for the grandson of an Earl. Even if he doesn’t talk much.”

 


	7. Interlude Three

Port Solace, nestled in a natural basin on the East Coast of the sprawling North American continent, contained an uneasy truce of sorts. The Navy tolerated the presence of the pirate crews. The pirates tolerated the presence of the Navy. The inhabitants of the port, all of whom lived off the profits of the sea, tolerated anyone who paid their bill and didn’t leave too much of a mess behind. And the colonial power de jour (for this port could scarcely keep track of which monarchy supposedly had its allegiance and had on more than one occasion served three masters at once) cared not one jot, provided it received its lucrative tax haul.

Ash navigated its tangled sprawl of streets easily. He was born here in one of the brothels, spoke four languages fluently and without identifiable accent, and could still pass as a citizen without too much trouble. It was Ellen who had lifted him from this mess of a town and Ellen who had his undying loyalty. So, at her request, he had made the three-day trip, found himself a lodging house and sunk into his old life as if he had never been out of it. 

He slunk from bar to bar, eavesdropping and information gathering.` Within a few hours he would hear everything there was to hear the gossip about The Black Impala and her latest skirmishes. By the end of the week he would know everything there was to know of The Dreadnought and her newly appointed Captain, Mr Alastair Brown.


	8. The Harvelles of the Four Winds Inn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we become properly acquainted with the residents of the Four Winds Inn and learn more about the good Lieutenant.

**Ribbons, Frills and Frockcoats**

Ellen had been working all night and so far, she had; three smart-looking frock coats folded and ready for sale, a tangled pile of piping, frill and ribbon scattered like sea foam about the beginnings of five differing spools, a floor covered in unpicked cotton and snippets of fabric and an entire pile of still recognisably naval uniforms untouched on the table. She glared at them as if it were the fault of these inanimate objects that her fingers were already raw and her back ached.

She stretched her neck and looked towards the shutters. Light fought its way through every crack and slither. It was well past the dawn hour and still there was no sign of either Jo or Sam. By now both should be down here, arguing over the chores and fighting over the pickings for breakfast. With a sigh she pushed her work away, stretching and easing her aching muscles. 

She had stayed up a little late talking to Bobby. Sam had come quietly back downstairs, his letter gripped tightly in his hand, she could not have begrudged the boy a moment or two with his Godfather. He was clearly disappointed that Dean had not been the one to come ashore with the second wagon, but he had still thrown himself into the warm and willing hug from Bobby. She was going to have to sit the lad down and let him talk it out. He had a good heart and a sharp mind, but he was willful and he found it hard to understand why Dean would not let him stay with him aboard ship. No matter how damned obvious it was to everyone else… Life and circumstances had forced Dean into piracy… no way was he going to let it be Sam’s lot. 

“He’s promised me, Ellen. Soon as he finds a way to put Alastair down, he’s quitting. There’s just a trusted few who know our exact links to this place and fewer still know about Sam.” Bobby had told her after they had sent Sam back to his bed. “He just wants to keep his promise to John and keep his brother safe.”

She shook her head ruefully, but for Alastair and his scheming Dean would already have that quiet life, a country gentleman raised by loving parents, with a doting Godfather in attendance, waiting to inherit a little farmstead in the Dorsetshire countryside. Instead, he was half a world away, keeping his little brother safe by pushing him away and fighting battles he really had no need of, but then she would not have Bobby in her life. Selfish it might be, but she would always be glad that circumstances had brought him and the Winchester boys to her.

“Jo! Sam!” She gripped the banister rail and puzzled at the lack of response. She raised one weary limb onto the first tread. “If I have to come up there and git you, there’s gonna be trouble.”

Not a sound. She clumped up the stairs. She was going to have them both scrubbing the parlour for this! She muttered subtle curses under her breath even as she forced her aching muscles to trudge up towards the bedchambers.

 

**Scissors and Snips**

 

The crew of the Impala were an impressive bunch. Benny watched them about their work with a satisfied smile. He had spent almost his entire life aboard one ship or another, so he could read the sea, a vessel or a crew, effortlessly. See what was needed to tweak to get that extra knot or two of speed or save effort. When it was right, his heart sang with the joy of it. He breathed in the salty scent of the ocean as The Impala surged forward, sails billowing, the hint of a crosswind cooling the sweet heat of the sun. It was glorious.

Behind him on the deck, her Captain was sitting relaxed in a chair as, despite the occasional buck of the boat, Garth Fitzgerald was carefully completing a cut of his hair and shaving away his scruff. Bobby was below decks somewhere, organising something. Benny glanced back about him and saw Castiel, leaning casually against the rigging, in his borrowed clothes, one leg bent just watching Garth about his work. Benny smirked. Oh, these two had it bad.

He had to admit though, he had scarce ever seen his serious friend look so relaxed or at peace with himself. It suited him to be aboard a pirate vessel, dressed in borrowed clothes, soaking up the sunshine.

Dean was reaching the limits of his ability to sit still. Garth finished his trim and wiped him down, flicking over his shoulders and neck with practised finesse to remove all those irritating little sticks of hair. Dean picked up his own tunic and wandered over to where Benny stood. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

“That she is.” Benny confirmed. He tried not to look at the mangle of scars across Dean’s back. The memory of the circumstances in which he got them, threatening to mar the pleasure of this day like a darkened storm cloud.

“There was nothing more you could have done, friend,” Dean mumbled softly, barely audible above the breeze. 

“I could have got to you sooner.”

“Nah. You did enough. There’s too many people already risked their neck for me. You got me to Bobby and Ellen as soon as you safely could. Anything more and I’d just have your death as another guilt to carry. I’m only sorry our paths haven’t crossed again sooner so I could thank you. Besides I missed your ugly mug chewing me out for fudging my knots or not laying a sail right.”

“Yeah, yeah.” 

“Seriously, every good thing I learned about being aboard ship, I learned from you.”

Benny flipped turning his back into the wind and regarded Dean more closely. “What damn fool thing are you about to do?”

Soft green eyes narrowed slightly as if squinting against the sun to scan the horizon. But Benny was not deceived, he waited patiently. 

“It’s time Benny. One way or another. Dragging my friends and allies around, letting them risk their necks for me time and again. I barely see Sam, he resents me for it, hell every time I do see him we end up in a massive row about some shit or other.” He let his head drop, the sun glinting off his freshly cut hair in shards of bronze and gold. “Ellen got some news for me... Alastair has finally been assigned away from the British coast.” 

“They put him aboard another vessel?”

Dean nodded. “They gave him a captaincy, Benny. They made that bastard a Captain. Ellen’s sent Ash in to Solace to get some more intel. He and his new vessel are set to arrive in port anytime soon.” Dean had paused, his voice so soft and low that Benny almost missed it. “They gave him the Dreadnought.”

Adrenaline ran through Benny, like a douse of cold water, his fingers actually tingled with the shock of it. “The Dreadnought!” The ship was the most heavily armed, powerful vessel afloat, fresh from a refit, her rumoured arrival was the most heavily anticipated sight among the naval crews. “The pride of the Navy and they gave it to Brown?! How do you know this? I’m in the fucking Navy Dean, and we heard not a word of it!” 

Dean shrugged his indifference at the means of the intelligence. “Ash.” His one-word explanation. The man was an oracle. But the Dreadnought...the English crown were determined to secure the Caribbean and she was the figurehead of their fleet. The aim to stamp the authority of the Royal Navy over all others. She was set to be the boot. Benny shook his head. “So that’s why you’re making your peace with the world.” He sighed heavily. “You actually got a plan?”

The shake of Dean’s head was barely perceptible. “Not yet. And before you even think about offering, I’m setting you and the Lieutenant ashore in the first neutral port we come to. You both have way too much to lose. And no,” his tone harshened as he saw Benny begin to stiffen in protest, “it’s non-negotiable. You don’t leave my vessel willingly and I’ll set you ashore in irons.”

Benny stared at the resolve in his young friend’s face. So much older than his years by virtue of a life lived the hard way. He shrugged. No point fighting him on it. He would find his own way to lend a hand when the time came. He relaxed and gave Dean a nudge, pointing across the deck with a wry smile. “You may have use of those irons elsewhere, though, someone else is acclimatising to pirate living far faster than you may care for.”

Dean turned to follow his gaze and gaped. Castiel sat, tunic discarded, in the barber’s chair, his shoulders and the deck around him covered in severed twists of long dark hair. 

 

**Cuts, Stowaways and Miss Harvelle’s Crush**

 

Castiel walked towards the two men his face alive with a gummy smile, as Benny whistled at him. Beside him, the Captain appeared to have lost the power of speech. He just stared as the Lieutenant drew closer. 

Even clean shaven Castiel’s jawline held the dark promise of growth. He scrubbed his own hand up through the back of his hair, now just over a finger thickness long. It looked...soft. Inviting. Dean could feel a the flush rising in his own neck. He self-consciously moistened his lower lip and instantly wished he hadn’t as bright blue eyes tracked the darting movement, his own eyes dropping of their own accord, as those ridiculously chalky pink lips parted in echo. He swallowed convulsively and closed his eyes.

Somewhere, high in the rigging, not in his normal perch, Tran called a cooey. Instantly Dean turned. The young man had spotted something amiss on board. Those crew on deck tensed immediately, heads appearing almost simultaneously as they looked about them to see where he was pointing, like foraging squirrels reacting to a hawk.

\---

Moments later, three of the crew appeared just shy of the forecastle, pulling and pushing two wriggling figures with them. The awkward smile had dropped from Dean’s face, a pulse in his temple beating out the rhythm of his rage as he set his jaw, slid down the stair rails with fluid ease and strode down the main deck to meet them.

“Put them in my cabin,” the captain was barking the order. Castiel stared in surprise, the stowaways were just youngsters, hardly worth such an aggressive response. He started down the stairs onto the main deck, Benny looking equally shocked followed after.

“You guard the door and no-one talks to them until I come back.” his voice was curdled with anger. “Tran!. You get your ass down here. That’s the second time you missed stowaways creeping aboard my ship, what am I keeping you for if you can’t even keep a proper watch…” he continued to berate the boy even after he dropped to the deck in front of him, wincing and blanching under the onslaught. Huge dark eyes beginning to shine with tears.

Bobby, who had appeared from below decks when the shouting began, immediately stepped in and was turned on with equal venom. “...just how in the hell do you think they got here, hm? You losing your touch old man? Or were you too busy making moon eyes at Ellen...”

The sound of the slap was clear and sharp. 

The captain turned and kicked his aggression into an abandoned bucket, it contents spreading dark tendrils across the deck boards curling into steam as the water thinned under the fierce heat of the sun. Thankfully all bar the necessary hands to keep sail were below decks dozing and eating until the heat of the noon hours passed over. The Impala continued her impervious glide through the waves, oblivious to the drama on deck, the only sounds the creaking of wood and rigging and the muted rumble of her sails as they billowed in the wind. 

The few crewman sent to guard the door, appeared round-eyed and troubled as the Captain strode into his quarters, slamming the door behind him. Bobby recovered quickly, as did Garth, moving the few crew on deck to be back about their business. Benny scooped up the bucket and set it right on the deck, it’s metal binding dented and pushing the wood askew. 

The sound of shouting, not much muffled by the cabin walls carried over the topmost decks. Castiel pulled the tunic still scrunched in his fist over his head and followed. The cool dark confines of the Captain’s private quarters in sharp contrast to the brilliance of the deck. Sound and light muffled by the low ceiling and close walls.

“... wouldn’t come ashore, how else was I supposed to see you!” The voice was young, with the slight squeak of freshly broken vocal chords. It grew louder as Castiel opened the interior door.

“You know why I can’t come ashore to see you!” The captain’s voice thundered back. “I don’t want our relationship to be common knowledge. Do you know what danger you will put yourself in? And you dragged Jo along with you? How irresponsible can you be? I can’t keep you safe, let alone do what I have to do if I…”

“He didn’t drag me,” The young girl’s voice was full of protest. “I came because I wanted to…”

“Keep me safe? Safe from what, Dean? Safe from the joys of being screamed at by you?”

“This is no life for you! Hell, it’s no life for anyone! If no-one knows about you, no-one can use you…”

Castiel finally turned the slight dogleg into the cabin, shutting this door firmly behind him, too. Three heads snapped round. A young blonde girl, tearful but defiant meeting his eye, while the captain and the young lad, whose noses had been barely inches apart as they screamed at each other only moments before both gaped at him. One blind in fury, the other frustrated.

“If the aim is to keep your ‘relationship’ a secret,” Castiel said calmly, “you might wish to conclude your argument in more muted tones. The entire ship can hear you, whether they wish to or not!”

Eyes he had grown accustomed to seeing green and sparkling, glared at him, dark with menace, but Castiel maintained his own calm look. “Fine!” the captain snapped, suddenly. Fists still balled at his sides, he raised one finger to point in the young lad’s face. “We’re done talking. You, both of you,” he stabbed his finger in the direction of the girl,” Are going straight back. And until we make landfall you stay in these quarters, either of you sets so much as a nose outside and so help me, I’ll clap you in irons and tow you back in the landing craft.”

\--- 

Stood on the quarterdeck next to Bobby, Garth muttered softly, “We’d sink under the weight of all these irons he keeps threatening people with if we had that many…”, earning himself a warning look. 

\---

Sam could feel his own anger turning to tears and he dropped onto the bunk, driving his bunched fists into his eye sockets. He knew Dean would be mad with him for this, but he had heard everything that Bobby and Ellen had discussed and he just knew he had to see his brother. 

He had sat at the top of the Inn’s backstairs after he was dismissed to his bed, not really aware that Jo was there until her fingers gently squeezed his shoulder. It was clear from the wisps of conversation drifting up the stairs that Ellen and Bobby were worried that Dean was going to do something foolhardy and get himself killed. Maybe if he could just talk to his brother he could convince him that it wasn’t worth it. That he had something to live for. Him.

That was when they had cooked up their plan. He would hide in the wagon when Bobby left. He was bound to go back to Dean and then Sam could talk to him, make him see reason. Tell him whatever this ‘Alastair’ had done it wasn’t worth risking his life for.

He’d had no choice but to let Jo go with him. The first time he realised what she intended was when she slipped under the canvas next to him in the wagon, dressed in a tunic and a pair of breeches. Just as he started to protest the door of the inn was opening and he would have given them both away, so reluctantly he lay still in the rumbling cart with her body heat pressed against him.

The ship was moored a few hundred yards off shore in a deep inlet of water, silhouetted against the gleam of reflected moonlight. Bobby had parked the wagon in the concealed shed and tethered the mule near to a low trough in the edge of the treeline, from where Ellen would probably have been sending Sam to fetch it in the morning. Sam made one last whispered attempt to convince Jo to take it and go back to the Inn, but her delicate jaw set in a line that he knew well. If he didn’t help her aboard, she’d do it by herself and acting independently increased the probability that they would be discovered. He rolled his eyes in silent agreement.

The pair sneaked quietly along the shoreline, as Bobby dragged a small boat into the water and began rowing towards the ship. The moon slid behind a cloud, but not before a hint of movement on board caught Jo’s eye. She pointed it out to Sam, but he did not catch it. “There’s someone sneaking along the ship, headed towards the stern quarters. Look! Going onto the quarterdeck.”

This time Sam saw it too, but only moments later two more figures were just about discernible moving slowly down through the rigging. Jo nudged Sam into action and they swiftly bundled their clothes together and tied them into an oilskin. Pushing it ahead of them, they swam swiftly and quietly out to the ship. Using the commotion at the stern as cover. Sam scrambled and swung himself up one of the thick ropes mooring the ship and dropped a rope ladder down to Jo, pulling it back up behind her the two set about finding a hiding place. Dean would undoubtedly insist on taking them back, so they needed to stay concealed until they were far enough out to sea, to give Sam time to talk to him.

Well, such had been Sam’s plan anyway. He had expected his brother to be angry at first, then to calm down enough so that he could explain himself, talk to him. But Dean was furious. More furious than Sam had ever seen him. He sniffed angrily, letting the salt of his tears burn his nose and throat. He just wanted to help, was that such a terrible crime? He felt the subtle shift in the bunk as Jo sat down beside him, but he shrugged her off when she tried to put an arm around him. “I just need to be alone,” he managed to mumble.

She stood up then and he heard the gentle click of the door closing. When he finally raised his head he was alone. 

\---

Jo followed the dark haired man as he lead her into what must be Dean’s study. He filled a goblet with, what she recognised after an exploratory sip, was mead. She raised the goblet in thanks and sat on the bench seat as he opened the shutters to let out the morning heat and give them the advantage of the available breeze. He held out a hand. “Lieutenant Castiel Milton, miss. That’s quite an adventure you’ve had.”

“Jo,” she said taking his hand, then awkwardly remembering her manners, she added. “erm.. That is… Miss Joanna Elizabeth Harvelle.” He gave a little bow and she smiled shyly at him as he delicately lowered her hand. “Are you… that is… your accent... are you French?”

“Half, miss. My mother.” His face softened and he gazed out to sea. His eyes reflecting the blue of the ocean or maybe it was the other way around and the breeze ruffling the dark hair. Jo swallowed a gulp of mead, awkwardly. He had such pretty manners. He was quite unlike the rough men and gangling, fumbling lads she normally met ashore.

“Oh,” Jo said softly, emboldened a little by the mead, she asked him, hesitantly how he came to be in the Caribbean. He stared at her for a moment and she drank him in, headier than the mead. He was so beautiful with the reflected sunlight from the sea dancing on his skin. She thought he wasn’t going to answer, but suddenly he started to talk. His eyes drifting wistfully back to the sea. 

“My mother was the daughter of the Comte de Mauripas, presented at court. She was demoiselles d'honneur to Marie Theresa of Spain. My father was the third son of the Earl of Northumberland. They met in Paris when he was part of an English diplomatic visit. He was skilled with a brush and he was so taken with her beauty he asked to be allowed to paint her portrait as a favour to the Queen.”

“That’s so romantic!” Jo said, eyes shining with delight. 

Castiel nodded, his gaze returning to her. Jo felt a little twisting pang in her heart. He looked so sad. “Indeed. They were caught out, of course. Their flirtation noted and their dalliance exposed. It caused quite the scandal at court, I believe. He refused to give her up and his family and hers paid for their passage out here. They settled quietly in Tortuga.”

Jo set down her goblet. “Are they still here?” 

“Yes, miss,” Castiel replied softly. “They are both buried in the hills above Tortuga. My mother died giving birth to my baby sister when I was still little more than an infant myself. I only know her from the pictures my father painted and the briefest and most elusive of memories.”

“What about your little sister?” Jo asked taking his hand. 

He smiled down at her. “Anna, her name is Anna. When our father died, she went to live with my mother’s family in France. And I was sent to school by my father’s family. I was 13 and she was 9, we’ve met twice since then, when I left school and again shortly before she married. I have nieces and nephews aplenty all ready to cause scandals of their own, no doubt, just like their Grandmama. The need to rebel seems to run deeply in our family.”

She smoothed a fingertip over the white band of skin just above his knuckle and he withdrew his hand and stared at it, strong elegance of his fingers accentuated as he stretched them apart. “My mother’s ring belongs there. It is the only thing I have left of her. My father designed it for her and had it made by one of the finest Silversmiths in France. It has two flowers entwined. The rose, his emblem and the lily for her, but it also has a secret… you see the gaps between the leaves make the shape of two interlocked hearts.”

Jo sighed, notions of true loves and happy ever afters restored. It was just like the novels she hid under her bed away from Ma’s prying eyes, along with the books on navigation and geography that she ‘borrowed’ from Sam. The novels that Sam teased her about relentlessly, but Castiel was continuing his story. “...the paintings went to France with Anna, I had no fixed place to call home. She offered to have a miniature copy made, but I prefer my memory. If I close my eyes…I can see her...as my father saw her... beautiful, an angel walking amongst men.” 

Jo stared at his face. He looked so serene, with his eyes closed and a gentle, melancholic smile on his face. She leant forward and shyly brushed her lips against his cheek. He jumped, startling her too and she slid backward on the bench as he leapt to his feet, the goblet rolling onto the floor. “I’m so sorry, Miss” he muttered, stooping to pick it up. “I didn’t mean for… I didn’t mean to startle you... I was not expecting…” he blushed, handsomely. Her heart pounded. “I’ll get you some more…” He tailed off, looking suspiciously at the goblet “… maybe some water? Yes, water.” 

\---

Listening above them, leaning on the rail at the back of the quarterdeck where he had come to cool his temper, Dean suppressed a quiet chuckle. He looked, far more thoughtfully, at the small silver ring on his pinkie finger, where he had put it originally only for safe keeping. It was so intricate, he turned it with the tip of his thumb, and smiled. The silver stems and leaves twisting together and now, so obvious, the warm shadow of his own skin making two entwined hearts in the absence of the metal.


	9. Interlude Four

**The Commodore's Office at Port Royal**

 

Commodore Sir Michael Meacham pinched the bridge of his nose. His clerk, a sharp attentive man, who missed nothing, official or otherwise, poured him a glass of port from the fine crystal decanter and set it on the desk before him. “Well, well, two crews disgraced and made foolish in as many weeks. Not quite the start at stamping our authority that King was looking for.” He scratched at his ear forcing his wig to a lopsided angle.

“Indeed, sir,” The clerk acknowledged, “But perhaps more fortunate that their timing is now. After all the court advisors are not to know whether it was the chicken or the egg came first.”

“Whittingham, much as I admire your abilities... do my headache the courtesy of speaking plainly.”

“Well, sir. The court has ordered a more effective Navy, better to battle the scourge of piracy and show dominance over the other European powers and set our stall in the Caribbean,” he continued a little faster as despite the fact that he had his full attention, Sir Michael was beginning once again to itch at his wig, a sure and certain sign of his irritation. “One of the best ways to strengthen a rose bush is to prune away the dead wood.”

Sir Michael squinted at him. This was not the plain-speaking he was looking for.

“The court is not to know that you did not manipulate events to expose those… less… functional Captains… to clear the ranks so to speak. Afterall, they of all people, understand the need for ‘manufacturing’ the evidence to suit one’s requirements.”

Sir Michael read again the report on his desk sipping at his port.

Whittingham cleared his throat politely and Sir Michael looked up at him expectantly.

“Every sin needs its scapegoat...Perhaps, sir…”

“Yes Whittingham, you can have a free hand on this one, prune a chicken, make an omelette of the roses...whatever…choose my scapegoats and tell me what course of action I have decided to take.”


	10. Mr Bobby Singer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the Black Impala meets the full force of nature.

 

**The Calm Before the Storm**

 

“You know it makes sense. You want the entire crew to know where we’re taking them and why? It’ll take five, maybe six-day sail to the Port Solace, round the Florida, we sail day and night. Ash will be there by then, ready to head back. It’s two or three days ride across land.”

“We can just drop them where we are…” Dean began to protest, but he knew Bobby was right. He couldn’t take them back himself, or even let Bobby go, once Benny and Castiel were set ashore it would leave them too short of experienced leaders. With what he intended to do next he could not spare any of his inner circle. He’d already near as dammit blown their secret, the last thing he needed was to trust his precious family with any of the crew. The most the general crew knew was the location of the inlet on the gulf coast and that felt dangerous enough.

Dean sighed. “Fine, but they’re confined to cabin.”

“We’ll need to get a message to Ellen,” Bobby said flatly.

“That won’t be a problem, we’re pulling into shore anyway. We have someone to drop off. You write her, and I’ll make sure it gets handed to a messenger to carry it.”

With his berth occupied, he was going to have to bunk in his study, but he was damned if he was doing it without his feather down pillows. He strode into his own cabin, wordlessly removing them without even a glance in Sam’s direction.

\---

Bobby spent the day moving about ship, the atmosphere was tense and quiet, the normal hubbub of banter and singing was missing, obvious as the non-ticking of a stopped clock.

The official line was that Sam and Jo were his ‘niece and nephew’. He could tell nobody was buying it, so he carefully planted the rumour, by virtue of an indiscreet conversation, easily overheard by the two worst gossips aboard that they were actually his illegitimate children. He left Tran and Garth to propagate it further with vague denials. It was as near to the truth as damn it anyway as far as he was concerned. He had long regarded both Winchesters as his boys and his ‘understanding’ with Ellen, which he had every intention of formalising as soon as he settled back ashore would make Jo his daughter.

Dean was noticeable by his absence, appearing only once all day, with a sack full of spoils. He called the drop to anchor just offshore of a small shanty fishing village. Watching the Captain unceremoniously shove the sack into Carter’s arms and order him aboard the smaller of the landing boats with his own few possessions certainly quieted anyone’s urge to comment too loudly. Bobby joined the two Naval men on the quarterdeck and they watched Dean row the man ashore himself, strong shoulders flexing at the oars.

On his return, he spoke to no-one and disappeared again into his quarters, leaving Bobby to set them to sail again.

\---

Dinner, so far, had been an awkward affair. The Captain and his brother neither of them apparently willing to make the first move, maintained an uneasy silence unless directly questioned by someone else. Castiel watched carefully when he thought neither of them was looking. He would give almost anything to have his own sibling sat at the dinner table with him. OK, perhaps not aboard a pirate ship as some strange hybrid of prisoner and guest, but the last summer he had spent with Anna in her soon to be marital home in the rolling countryside of the Dordogne had been the happiest two months of his life thus far. And he could never help the surge of excitement when the high stone walls of fortification at Port Royal came into sight, for he then knew that her neat cursive would be gracing a folded parchment, sealed with lavender scented wax and full of the exploits of her ever-increasing brood.

His thoughts must have shown in his face, as Miss Harvelle, who spent much of her time sighing heavily and gazing at him, reached across the corner of the table, past Benny to stroke his hand where it rested beside his plate. He flinched slightly, but schooled his features into a polite smile, before gently, but firmly removing her hand from his.

Between them, Benny suppressed his amusement, barely, but the Captain froze, fork poised over his plate, his glance flicking from one to the other under his eyelashes. Castiel had no wish to toy with the affections of a young girl and he felt the blush rising in his cheeks. It was no way to repay his place at this table. He shifted awkwardly in his seat.

Bobby set his cutlery down. “Sun’s set.” He stated as if this was news. “I best be going to take the helm for a stint. You two youngsters must be beat. And Jo, young lady, no lying there scouring through the available books, your Ma may not know your reading habits, but I do. Don’t you go throwing Dean’s good grace for the best berth aboard back in his face.”

She flushed, flicked a little glance at Castiel, before dropping her eyes to her lap. Somehow, Castiel suspected, there was more to this little exchange than at first apparent.

The door to the table room shut and that left just the three of them. Benny gave a low whistle, “Something tells me the little one has a healthy dose of heart eyes.”

“I promise I haven’t encouraged her,” Castiel blurted. “She’s still a child. I just…”

“You don’t need to encourage her,” Benny chuckled, “She’s got eyes and ears!” He stood, stretching his back. “I promised Bobby I’d relieve him for the second half the night. He’s offered me his bunk for the first part until he can get me something permanent sorted and I’m not about to throw that kind of hospitality away. I take it I have your permission Captain, to break my ‘prisoner’s orders’...”

For the first time since the stowaways had been discovered Dean’s features relaxed and he huffed a reluctant laugh. “You’re no prisoner, Benny, you come and go as you please. With Carter gone, Bobby could probably do with the help steadying the morale aboard. I’ve been as much use as a priest in a doxiehouse all day.”

Benny nodded and, with a flash of a smile, he collected their plates up with his own and carried them out in a bucket.

The captain stood without speaking and pushed back the heavy curtain hung across the cabin. Castiel could see that the little bench seat where he had sat just that morning with Miss Harvelle had been extended and two neat piles of bedding lay folded on it. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to be below decks… there may be one or two holding you responsible for Carter and… well… I don’t think he was well liked, but it’s a big enough crew that I can’t be sure of everyone…” His voice held a note of apology. “All things being normal, of course, I’d have given you mine, but… Jo… I can’t risk her in…and Bobby needs his...”

“I understand.” Castiel could not help but take pity on him. “There’s never much space aboard and needs must…”

“Ship’s carpenter made quick work of the base and if it’s not comfortable enough you only have yourself to blame…” Some of the flirtatious tones crept into his voice. Castiel's brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I set the men to using the wreckage from the jib. They made the mattresses out of the canvas… heaven knows what they stuffed them with, but a bit of pummelling and they seem…”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine and it’s bound to be more comfortable than my previous arrangements aboard,” Castiel offered dryly.

Dean dropped his head between his shoulders. He turned and realised that Castiel was teasing him. “I guess I deserved that.” He shook out a blanket. “You are a good man.” He glanced, back and catching the surprise on Castiel’s face, he blushed, blundering on. “That is… Benny… he thinks highly of you and… well… after my family… I’d trust him with my life… so I guess...” his freckles stood proud in the candlelight. He raised one arm to drag through his hair and he looked down at the bedding again.

“It’s all right, Captain. I…” The words of reassurance died in his throat. The captain’s fingers were still flexed in his short hair. Four strong fingers. Four strong, unringed fingers. Castiel swallowed. He had become used to catching glimpses of his mother’s ring on that hand. Had this man added it to the spoils chest? Had it already gone, given to Carter of all people perhaps? Surely, fate could not be so cruel... He had hoped with the promise of money or work or something he could bargain to get it back… but if it was gone...

\---

Dean sighed. His day could not really have gone any worse. He only had his own temper to blame. He’d punched a good deal of his aggression out on these mattresses. They were exceptionally well pummelled. Now, Lieutenant Milton, a man he had treated atrociously was obviously trying hard to make _him_ feel better. He glanced up as the gravelly voice dried. Saw the anxiety and worry writ large. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

“I’ll go,” he said, hurriedly. “I can sleep on deck.”

The Lieutenant appeared to be pulling himself together. He straightened. “No, really, there’s no need.”

“I need to check…” he couldn’t think of a single valid excuse. This man was an experienced naval officer, he wasn’t going to believe some on the spot ruse. “Some air,” he spluttered. Perfect. “I just need some air.”

“We could just open the shutters,” Castiel pointed out, but he still looked… forlorn. “I really don’t feel it is appropriate for you to lose two berths in one day. Perhaps I should…”

“NO!” It came out more forcefully than he intended. “Dammit Cas, get in the goddamned bunk.”

The man stared, blinked, stared some more, eyes round and blue, so emotive, so bright, so compelling. “Cas?” he mumbled.

Dean ground his teeth, he had to get a grip of this… whatever the hell this was. “Sorry,” he said more softly. “Lieutenant Milton, may I humbly suggest that you get in _your_ bunk and go to sleep before the sun rises on this discussion.”

“You may.” The Lieutenant murmured, the faintest of smiles gracing his lips. “However I have a minor alteration, may I insist that _we_ both get in _our_ respective bunks and…”

Dean sighed. “Fine. Ok. I surrender. If I promise to return in a few moments, will you please just rest.”

The Lieutenant gave a curt little bow and Dean bolted past him for the open air of the deck.

\---

Castiel sat quietly on the bunk. He stared at the silver ring in his hand. He had found it balanced neatly on one of the pillows, tethered with a length of ribbon to a small folding knife. It was quite some declaration of trust, not only to share a cabin with him but to arm your former prisoner. He closed his fist around his mother’s ring letting the sharpness of it ground him as it often had, even as the flood of relief itched in his eyes. Cas. He smiled. Only Anna ever called him Cas. Somehow he did not think he minded if the captain... _Dean_... he corrected himself, started to use it.

 

**Any Port in A Storm**

 

The next few days passed quietly, slowly, as they made progress steadily down the coast, but the malaise aboard the Impala did not lift. Tran barely set foot on deck, preferring to keep himself high in the rigging. Benny continued helping aboard ship, setting drills and occupying the crew, patiently teaching and coaching them into greater efficiencies of effort. Garnering respect with each passing moment, filling the gap left by the absence of Dean’s steady presence and the loss of Carter. The ‘slap’ was not mentioned. Not once, but everyone seemed far more wary of Singer.

Flying no colours and keeping enough distance from the shore and other ships to avoid recognition of the Impala’s distinctive figurehead. They cleared the relative narrows of Key West without interference, but beyond this point the traffic would be picking up.

\---

Castiel woke on the fourth morning, not sure at first what had woken him. He sat up carefully, the light was soft, the day on the cusp of dawning. He rubbed his eyes and gently cracked open the shutter, listening for what had woken him. The ship creaked gently around him, her beams flexing softly with the motion of the sea. Then he realised: The outline of the landscape was shifting, but only with a rocking motion. They were no longer moving. He sniffed the air, it smelt onerous, slick and heavy with latent energy.

He glanced at the sleeping form in the bunk opposite him. They had not spoken of the return of his ring, but there was an easy familiarity developing between them and he liked this man. Perhaps too much. He quite enjoyed the quiet times when Dean slept and he sat awake. He watched the drift of his dreams and listened to the steady rhythm of his gentle breathing mixing with occasional snuffles and noises as he stirred. But he would not indulge himself today. Today, he wanted to go on deck. To check his first instinct, before he disturbed the Captain’s sleep.

He dressed quickly and efficiently, three days practice making the task of fastening the confusion of ties around his boots swift. He pulled the soft tunic over his head and made his way up to the deck. The sky was cloudless but the quality of the light was ethereal, it confirmed his worst suspicions. He saw Bobby making his way across the main deck, rubbing at his one eye with the back of his hand.

“You smelt it too, boy?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. He had long since realised that the ‘boy’ was something of an honorific from Bobby. He seemed to use it only with those whom he regarded well. “Should I wake the Captain?”

Reluctantly, Bobby nodded. He took a hold of Castiel’s arm to stop him as he turned. “It’s time for him to stop sulking, too. This ship needs her Captain. Your man Benny and I can only hold the crew for so long. He won’t take it from anyone else, Castiel, but you have a knack for making him see reason when even I can’t.”

Castiel blinked. Bobby scanned his face, his one eye flicking back and forth to read his understanding. Castiel nodded and the older man relinquished his grip on his arm.

\---

Dean stood on the quarterdeck as the dawn broke properly, the sky to the South was beginning to build, banks of cloud forming a wall. Thoughtful and calm, he sighed and accepted his fate. “Tran?” There was no answering movement. “Kevin?” This time there was a subtle shift in the tension of the ropes around the mast. “I know you’re up there, Tran. I’m sorry, all right. You know I’d be lost without you.” He kept his voice low, knowing it would carry just far enough to reach the boy’s ever-sensitive ears. “Now you gonna get down here so I can say it to your face? We got work to do.”

His ability to drop almost noiselessly from the rigging, gave the impression he had just materialised on deck in the half dawn light. One minute the space ahead of Dean was empty, the next it was partially filled with a wide grin and a pair of huge dark eyes.

\---

Castiel made himself busy rolling out charts and maps. He and Bobby had already identified the St. Lucie River as the best hurricane hole within reach now they needed other options should they not make it that far, before the storm hit. He smiled softly as he watched Dean making good on his relationships in his peripheral vision. He was indeed, just as stubborn, as Castiel was himself, but Castiel had come to know that he was also, brave, honest, loyal and true. So Castiel thought maybe he understood: Dean’s self-imposed exile had not been the result of pride, or resentment. It was the result of a deep sense of shame at his own behaviour. And it had not taken much to jerk him out of this self-destructive loop. Just the impending arrival of a hurricane that threatened the survival of his ship and his crew and a few well-chosen words to point it out.

\---

The wind picked up gradually ahead of the storm, they would need to catch every scrap of it to make it into the sheltering neck of the St. Lucie River. It was a balancing act, picking their moment to redistribute the stocks and cargo in the hold to get themselves low enough to take the increasing swell without reducing their speed. Dean moved about the ship talking to crew individually and in groups. He had only just given up the hope that maybe both Cas and Bobby were mistaken, even though he knew in his heart they were not.

He steadied and cajoled, made apologies where he needed, until with a heavy heart, he realised there was only one more conversation to be had. He was making his way across the main deck towards his own cabin when he spied Cas standing shoulder to shoulder with Benny, his newly cropped hair spiking in all directions in the rising squall, as they worked at sealing the hold. Soon the only way below decks would be the two narrow hatchways into the forecastle and his own quarters. He had not yet broached the subject of his intention to set the Lieutenant ashore and he was certain that Benny had not mentioned it to him. It was Lafitte’s style to leave men to their own business wherever possible. They both raised their heads as he came close and Cas stepped into his path.

“Remember. They’re both frightened, but neither of them will admit to how much. Your brother is going to be a fine man, Dean, perhaps it’s time for you to let him prove it.” Dean stared at the hand gripping his arm, the silver ring glinted from its place on Castiel’s finger.

He nodded, glancing up, his lips skewing into a little smile. “As you were, Cas.”

 

**The Spirit of the Storm**

 

“Think we’ll make it?” The voice switched back and forth in the coil and swirl of wind and spray.

Bobby glanced over his shoulder. He nodded. “You need to go below deck, boy.”

Castiel nodded back, leaning heavily into the pitch of the deck as the swell rocked the Impala violently from port to starboard. Only one sail remained unfurled, her connections loose enough that once the storm really hit she would rip away rather than topple the ship.

“I need one more thing from you, boy,” Bobby shouted, the storm snatching at his voice. “Lash me to the wheel. Not got the strength to do it proper no more.”

Reluctantly, knowing the truth of it, but not liking it, Castiel complied. “I’ll be back,” he promised, “Soon as we’re in the hole.”

“No point risking more ‘n one soul.” Bobby held his eye. “You leave me be up here, what will, will out. I want you safe to take care of… promise me Castiel, you’ll get them back to Ellen.”

Taken aback by the trust placed in him and with a final tug on the straps, Cas nodded solemnly, before he patted Bobby on the shoulder and made his way back across the deck. He checked the tension in the guide rope he’d fastened between the helm and the stern as he went.

\---

 

The drum of hailstones across the decks above their heads, crackled and pounded, drowning out all other sounds. The pitching and yawing eased and dropped away, either Bobby had managed to ride the storm surge into the natural protection of the river inlet or the storm was inexplicably dropping.

Dean watched his brother as he kept Jo tucked hard against his side, with a swell of pride. Cas was right, he was well on his way to being the man that Dean knew he could be. He glanced about him. Some of the crew were praying or playing with their rosary. Dean had long since given up on any god: He put his faith in his friends and allies.

Lanterns swayed and sputtered, as the ship with an awesome, thundering groan which shivered up through their feet and echoed around their heads, settled at a slight angle. They were aground, they were in the hole. The sound of the hailstones diminished away so that now all that remained was the scream of the wind and the creaks and moans of the ship’s timbers as they flexed under the onslaught.

Benny nodded towards the stairs to the hatch and Dean followed his line, just in time to see Cas’ soft boots disappear above the deck line. “Go,” Benny raised his voice above the din. “I can keep everyone steady here.”

With a grateful smile, Dean took the ladder steps two at a time and followed Cas through the hatch.

Dean stood beside Cas in the corridor between his study and his berth. Batoning the hatch behind him. The wind was raging the other side of the door, rattling it with its power and the cacophony so loud in the small space that his ears hurt. Cas rolled his eyes at him, but stepped towards him and passed a rope around his chest, knotting it firmly so that he felt its bite. For one moment he thought his trust might have been betrayed as he tried to take a step and it pulled him short, but he realised it was just the loop between them snagging on the door to his berth. Together, taking one end each they lifted first one, then the other of the heavy beams slotted to hold the door. Instantly the roar of the storm crashed through at them. Rain lashing their faces Cas reached his arm through the door feeling for the guide rope he had fastened between the helm and the outside of the cabin wall, fastening the loop between to the solid ring of brass the ship’s smithy had found for him that morning. With one last heavy glance at each other, Dean felt for Cas’ hand in the darkness and they stepped forward into the storm.

They skittered and slid across the deck, where the barely melted hailstones were like a slick of pure ice, using each other for support. The cold bit into their skin and it was impossible to make sense of each other’s words. Never had the stretch of the main deck seemed so long. Dimly ahead he could just make out the shape of the helm through the slashing rain, so hard it bruised. Clumps of debris blasted past in the wind, but more through luck than judgment they seemed to be dodging the worst of it. He concentrated on the warm grip of Cas’ hand in his and let himself be lead.

He felt a surge of relief when he saw Bobby was still upright at the wheel. He must still be alive. He squeezed Cas’ hand once and pointed with his free arm. “Look.” He shouted as loud as he could. Cas just pulled him closer and they climbed out of the relative shelter of the deck hollow up onto the helm. The sky above them flashed with lightning, throwing stark shadows and brilliantly illuminating the whole scene. That was when he saw the limpness of Bobby’s limbs, the twist of leather straps and ropes holding him to the wheel. The damned old fool had lashed himself to the wheel, then passed out before he could free himself and head back.

Cas was gripping Singer’s face. Dean saw his mouth open but could not hear the words. Lightning flashed again and the shape of a blade painted itself onto his retina, hanging red and bright even as the darkness resumed. Thank heaven, he had given Cas his knife, and that he had thought to bring it with him, the need for a blade was a foresight Dean himself had failed to consider. He felt a surge of gratitude, then kicked into action

\---

“He’s alive,” Cas shouted again when he realised Dean had not heard him. His sense of relief immense, he had feared… well… they were not out of the woods yet. He bent and pulled the knife from his boot, the mother of pearl warm and smooth against his palm and began cutting through the bindings to free Singer from the wheel. Bobby rallied slightly, his one eye briefly fixing on Cas’ face as the lightning once again flashed about them, the harsh scar across his face exposed to the cruel brilliance. “You did it! Bobby. You did it! Time to get you back in the warm.” Cas suspected he was not heard, but with a flash of recognition in his one eye and a brief grimace of acceptance, Bobby slumped forward.

Cas gestured to Dean, who drew closer. They fastened Bobby between them and began the slow, treacherous slide back across the deck, step by dangerous step.

 


	11. Interlude Five

**The Commodore's Office in Port Royal**

 

“...so all in all, Sir Michael. We seem to have escaped the worst of the Lord’s wrath.”

Sir Michael Meacham, his wig vaguely tipped forward over the edge of one eyebrow, jolted back to full attention as his wandering brain realised that Whittingham had, in fact, stopped talking. He recovered himself relatively quickly.

“In summary, then sir,” Whittingham scanned his list of ships suspected confirmed lost or unaccounted for, “The Raleigh returning to England to be decommissioned and somewhat ironically The Tranquility, both supply vessels confirmed lost, both empty of cargo with minimal crew.”

“Good, good,” Sir Michael looked ruefully over his shoulder at his empty port decanter. The Chief Surgeon had told him he had gout and his wife, who read every medical journal and hysterical theory available had decided no more port. Neither of  _ them _ had to contend with a Whittingham.

“... Only the Dreadnought left to report in, but she was off the mid-Americas and likely to be too far North to be affected. Word will no doubt reach us of her safe passage through.”

“And the land damage.”

“Minimal, sir. Mainly at the level of broken windows and the odd collapse. I believe the House of Madame de Bonneville took a battering. Still, all that lace and frippery has added an almost festive appearance to the debris.”

Sir Michael peered over his glasses at the impassive face of his clerk. Sometimes he felt Whittingham did not take things quite as seriously as he might.

“Anything else I need to be aware of…”

“Indeed, sir. Congratulations are in order. Your decision to give Captain Shurley a promotion to a landside job has proved extremely popular and had a most favourable outcome.”

“Oh,” Sir Michael scratched at his wig. “...and where exactly did I promote the good Captain to…”

“He is making strong inroads into his new role as the official Naval Chronicler, sir. In fact, it is a most satisfactory appointment. He is currently ensconced in the fort with piles of parchment and a bushel of pre-cut quills making short work of correspondence, dispatches and orders. Much to the delight of his former crew and the relief of my own wrists. We also received a communique from the Admiralty on the much-improved legibility of our reports. Most satisfactory.”

Sir Michael nodded. He had read many of Whittingham’s reports and felt the admiralty’s relief.

“And former Captain Adler?”

“Pensioned, sir. I believe he has already left on his return to England…” Whittingham began scanning down his scroll. 

Sir Michael watched him skeptically. He was altogether too smug. “Indulge me, Whittingham. Allow me to hazard a guess… he was aboard The Raleigh…”

“Goodness me, sir,” Whittingham smiled. “You could almost be a carnival curiosity! ...Ahem...I believe that almost concludes our business for the day, sir, and it barely being past the noon! Just one last item for today. Obviously, we had to absolve Captain Shurley of blame in the shambles with The Swallow. The remainder of the crew have now been reclaimed from the tip of Cuba, only two men unaccounted for, both last known to be aboard The Impala…”

“The Impala, but isn’t that the vessel of the pirate they call The Righteous Man?!”

“Oh, well done, sir.” Whittingham congratulated without irony. “The missing men, a Lieutenant Milton and a Master Lafitte…”

“LaFitte…” Sir Michael furrowed his brow and his wig slipped forward still further. The name was unusual and yet familiar.

“Yes, sir… he was one of the junior officers transferred from the crew after the disastrous affair aboard The Redoubtable. You may remember there was a whiff of mutiny.”

Sir Michael snorted. Mutiny, be damned. The only whiff was the stench of an almighty cover-up, the whole thing smelt like a week old corpse. It was just before his own appointment, his predecessor ‘resigning’ his commission to return home to run his family estates. It was his predecessor who had given Adler a new captaincy and reassigned the other officers to other vessels, disbanding the crew of the Redoubtable and refitting her to sail under another name. Its former Lieutenant had just made Captain, given the prestigious honour of The Dreadnought. Neither he nor Adler had particularly distinguished themselves, but this man Brown was seemingly untouchable. He certainly had gotten results, but Sir Michael was not entirely sure at what cost. He looked at Whittingham expectantly.

“According to former Captain Shurley’s report on the matter, Lafitte was ashore with a landing party when the Impala attacked without warning. I have assisted him to… ahem… adjust it, to formalise it for the Admiralty, you understand, as part of his training to write dispatches…”

Assisted. Adjusted. Training. None of these words carried the ring of truth. Sir Michael really, really missed his port.

“...it is clear that Lieutenant Milton acted without authorisation, ordering the crew to loose the anchor and abandon the crewmen left ashore and when challenged by his Captain he chose to leave his ship rather than face sanction…”

“An honourable action…” Sir Michael began tentatively, nodding, his wig strangely motionless even as his head moved.

“Oh no, sir.” Whittingham corrected him gently. “Cowardice. Most definitely.” 

Sir Michael’s head altered course, his wig spinning askew as he switched to match the subtle shake of his clerk so that its ribboned pigtail slid across his right shoulder as Whittingham mouthed. “Half French.” Irritably he pushed his wig back into position.

“Milton was taken aboard The Impala. Lafitte, bravely, nobly, unaware of the man’s actions mounted a solo rescue mission. We can only assume...well… to board a pirate vessel in such circumstances...the outcome is unlikely to be good...So your bitter-sweet task, Sir Michael, I have here two orders. A posthumous award for brave Master Benjamin Lafitte and an arrest warrant for Lieutenant Castiel James Milton for cowardice and desertion.”

Sir Michael scribbled his name to both documents, as Whittingham continued, “Strong likelihood that they are  _ both _ dead, of course. The warrant is unlikely to ever be required, but for appearances...we must be seen to act. Very sad for the family, of course. I understand that Milton is the grandson of the Earl of Northumberland, but his Lordship has done his best for the man and will bear no slight from it.”

With a gentle bow, Whittingham took his leave. With a sigh of relief, Sir Michael removed his wig and strolled to the window of his office. The sky above the Fort was a brilliant blue, it was hard to believe that it had held so much violence just two days before. 


	12. After The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we exchange one tempest for another (warning for smut)

**The Odour of Half-Dried Linen**

 

They lay Bobby in the Captain’s bunk. There was no question of carrying him below decks. They stripped him of his wet clothes, checking him for injuries as they went. Cas disappeared briefly, returning with Tran, his dark brown eyes narrowing as he scanned the figure in the bed.

Dean fished a bolt of flannel from the large wooden drawer built into the bottom of his bunk, bruising his hand as it stuck. This blasted storm was warping the very fabric of his vessel. His jaw muscles bunched and he kicked at the corners to force it shut again. He stared at the face of the man to whom he owed so much and fought back the surge of rage. His temper had done enough damage recently. Bobby looked so vulnerable, his hair plastered to his head, every inch of him seemed to be either swollen, or bruised, or lacerated.  Why hadn’t the damn fool loosed himself from the wheel as soon as he managed to force them aground?

“We need to get him warm.” He had barely even noticed that Castiel had taken the flannel from his hands. His mind only absently registering the sound of it tearing, somehow audible over the raging of the storm all around them. “Dean! We need to get him warm.” Castiel had shoved the strips of fabric to Tran and was gripping Dean’s wrists. Fingers icy cold, even against the cool of his own wrists, pulling him back to focus. “We need a kettle of water, to clean his wounds and fill the warming pans. We need to start getting him warm. You need to fetch hot water. Captain. Go. Now.” Castiel was searching his face, looking for understanding. He nodded and headed below decks. His preference always for action in times of need. 

The storm raged on, gradually weakening with each passing hour. Bobby, at times his teeth chattering so violently they feared he would bite off his own tongue, became feverish. Fighting through his delirium, knocking Tran off his feet, blacking the boy’s eye and splitting his eyebrow. But still he stayed and ministered his concoctions alternating with Dean and Castiel to cool the heat from Bobby’s face and neck even as they fought to warm the rest of his body. The darkness waned from storm black to the more gentle darkness of night.

Below decks, Benny kept order. The only other serious injury a crewman who had fallen as they beached. His arm twisted and blackened. They had heard his scream as his arm was straightened and splinted even up here, over the maelstrom. It was the only time that Tran left Bobby’s side. Returning grim-faced, with yet another kettle of water and a bottle of brandy. His wide grin at Dean’s raised eyebrows, making Castiel laugh. “You honestly think you have any secrets from your rigging monkey? Of course, he knows where you keep the good stuff!”

Not for the first time, Dean wondered at his good fortune with the people who happened into his life. He remembered the frightened little wretch, cowering away from passing boots, half-starved, but somehow still determined. Dean’s intervention, gripping the raised arm of a stall holder as he was about to beat the boy winning his loyalty for life. Now, Tran sat squirming under Cas’ firm insistence that he let him clean and stitch the cut above his eye. Bobby was finally sleeping peacefully under the effects of a draught Tran had prepared. Dean’s own limbs ached with tiredness. He sat on his spare bunk and let his head fall back against the cabin wall.

\---

A stray sunbeam broke through the shuttered window forging a vivid red stripe across Dean’s retina. Disoriented and hazy, he pulled his head back slightly away from the brilliance and blinked his eyes into focus, the room smelled musty, like damp clothes. Somewhere above and behind him, he heard a little grumble of dissatisfaction as he moved. Dust motes danced in the fractured golden array of sunlight and shadow. Beyond it, in the half-light, Tran blinked back at him, squatted at the back of his proper bunk, raising a single finger to his lips. He nodded first to Bobby and then back over his Captain’s shoulder. Cautiously Dean turned his head and found himself looking up at the angled jaw of Lieutenant Milton. 

Cas leant against a bolster propped in the corner of the cabin. His face slack, one arm bent supporting his head, the other, Dean realised was the comfortable weight across his own shoulder and chest. The warmth of Castiel’s side and thigh pressing against him, one of his heavy bed curtains draped over them both as a makeshift blanket. 

Tran stood slowly and stretched, his slender shoulders popping as he sighed. “Storm is passed,” he said, more than a little unnecessarily, keeping his voice low. “He is a useful man,” he nodded again in Castiel’s direction. “He knows many things and he has kindly ways.” It was high praise, coming from Tran. ”Singer will sleep now, for many hours, but his fever is not fully broken. He will need to be watched, I shall fetch Miss Harvelle and your brother, it will keep them safe with occupation while the crew are about the ship.”

Dean gave a little laugh. “Are you telling me Tran, or asking my permission?” The dark black eyes watched him with amusement. “Away with you, you cheeky wretch. Send them up and then go check your rigging and give me a look out brief. I’ll wake the Lieutenant.”

 

**The Sweetness of Innocence**

 

The Impala lay embedded on a bank of loose gritty shale deep inside the inlet of the St. Lucie River. She was relatively unscathed. Working to take stock of the damage and losses, Dean could not help but feel deeply thankful. They took the opportunity to pitch and patch the hull, it would save them a careening in the near future. The practice of deliberately beaching a boat in the soft sand and pulling it to a precipitous lean, so the hull could be kept seaworthy always left him feeling gut-wrenchingly vulnerable and Dean would take any opportunity to delay the necessity.

The tidal estuary was still beautiful, even with the battering it had taken. Currents twisted the water into patterns and swirls, which sparkled prettily under the warmth of the afternoon sun. As ever after a storm of such malevolence the air was sweet and clean, as if the sky felt it needed to reaffirm its innocence.

He stood alone on his quarterdeck, letting the heat of the sun ease the ache in his shoulders. He had spent much of the morning getting his hands dirty with the crew. They were literally all hands on deck. He had even allowed Sam to help out briefly, setting his chart table up on the quarterdeck. A bright look of enjoyment spreading across his young face as Castiel showed him knots to secure the various accessories and tools that had been removed before the storm back in their usual stowage around the rails. Their secret seemed to be holding, only those he deeply trusted knew Sam’s true identity, for sure.

The crew were too busy unloading the contents of the hold to be interested in stowaways. It was no easy task without a dock or harbour, but necessary if they were to take advantage of the high tide in the estuary to refloat the Impala. At least those trees still upright would be strong enough to use as pulley holds. If the storm had not brought them down, the weight of the Impala would be the blow of a butterfly wing by comparison.

Once she had been refloated they would pull her into deeper water and reload. Time consuming, but a darn sight better than being at the bottom of the sea. All in all they had got away light. His concern for Bobby slid through his brain, dampening his spirits. He looked back at his charts, thinking to set them aside and go and check on Singer’s progress, when a steaming mug of hot coffee was placed neatly in front of him on the charting table. 

He glanced up, Cas was yawning and took a slug of his own drink. Scratching absent-mindedly at his hair. It was a gesture Dean found intensely disturbing, purely because he was developing something of an obsession with what it would feel like in his own hands. They had scarcely had time to talk since he had gently shaken Cas awake. Jo and Sam arriving before he had really had a chance to thank the lieutenant for his part in hopefully saving Bobby’s life.  

“It’s good,” Dean said softly.

“Hm?” Cas was scouring the chart that Dean had been working on, he was clearly barely listening.

“The coffee: It’s good.” Dean watched Cas’ hands as they moved, his long slender fingers tracing the plotting marks. The ring flashing intermittently as it caught the sunlight.

“Benny made it,” he mumbled, continuing to concentrate. “He’s always made the best coffee. I find I don’t have the patience to wait for it. You know we’re going to have to be careful… the storm will have shifted…”

“...the sandbanks… I know.”

“More than that. A storm of such strength, it can shift rocks...channels that have held for years can be…” 

“I know,” Dean said with more insistence. He set down his mug, with deliberate care. He moved to stand at Castiel’s shoulder. To better view the section those long supple fingers were tracing, of course. He absolutely was not caressing the neckline with his eyes. The milder skin uncovered by Garth’s skill with scissors and razor, pink with exposure to the sun had not captured his attention. Short tendrils of hair forming a line of soft curls did not perfectly frame the natural elegance of a strong neck. That was not the subtle beat of a pulse he could just see in the hollow shadow as the jaw turned. No, not at all, he was just getting a closer look at the chart, because he hadn’t spent all morning drawing and marking it. He needed to look at it again, after it all, it was not as if when he closed his eyes he could still see the outlines of indigo and red marked sharply on the parchment . No, he  _ needed  _ to be this close to properly view the chart. Castiel did not move, other than the slight twist of his shoulders as his fingers traced the coastline, head bowed as he continued his scrutiny. 

Stood this close, Dean could smell the lingering ozone on his hair and skin from the fresh morning breeze, feel the heat of his body, hotter even than the sun on his back. He took a long, slow blink, squeezing his own eyes shut, swallowing, internal monologue harshly critical. What the hell was he doing! 

Castiel was turning his head, coffee scented breath blowing warm on Dean’s cheek, a flash of blue, fleeting as a kingfisher over a stream, until the cage of dark lashes dropped. Dean was acutely aware of every sensation, his own breathing, the blood rushing through his body, pulse points everywhere flaring up like signal flags, even the disconcertingly stationary deck pressing up under his feet. 

Dammit, he needed to concentrate on the job in hand. He had nothing to offer this man, nothing. He would be setting him ashore as soon as they reached the port. He was the enemy. He was an Officer in the Royal Navy and every moment he spent aboard this ship further compromised his career… But those lips, if he just let his head fall forward… he could taste them, see whether their texture was as papery soft as it looked...he could bring his hand up, scratch his fingers through those curls and see if he could make Cas’ breath hitch in his throat again.

He was so lost in his own senses that he almost headbutted Cas, when Benny appeared like a child’s jack in the box over the edge of the ladder steps. They bumped against each other as Cas straightened and Dean took a step in the same direction, his attempt to move away developing into an awkward, too-close-for-comfort shuffle. He shuddered slightly as Cas hand gripped him lightly at the waist to guide him away. He pretended he couldn’t see the grin of amusement on Lafitte’s face. Coughing to cover his own confusion, he made the mistake of glancing at Castiel. Head angled, squinting, as if he were working out a particularly complex puzzle. God dammit, that tilted squint did things it just plain shouldn’t.

“You should, eh, that is I should er....” Dean glanced down as his hip hit the chart table, the plumb weights falling and rolling in all directions. He stopped to collect one, as Castiel shuffled backwards to avoid it landing on his foot. Dean found himself bent double, nose mere inches from the man’s groin. He felt the blush burning around his ears and neck, quite convinced he must be a brighter red than the tropical birds he could hear calling among the trees. He jolted back upright, swallowing as Castiel gently removed the weight from his shaking hands and set it with the softest of impacts on the chart. 

“You must excuse me,” Castiel murmured. “I promised your brother I would assist him with his studies. He seems to believe that I may be able to help him with his algebra. I fear he may be overestimating my abilities, but… well… he is a very determined young man and I scarce know how to refuse him.” He gave Benny a simple nod and then made his instinctive little bow as he took his leave. Raising his feet so that he slid down the rails without touching the steps.

Benny chuckled. “Ah, Castiel. Ever the diplomat’s son.” Dean glared at him, but it made no difference. Lafitte shook his head. “Still, you best be intervening with all these lessons, least ways where the practicals are concerned,” he nodded towards the neat rows of equipment lashed to the rails, “‘less you want your brother forever tying knots like a Frenchie!”

  
**Bougainvillea**

 

Port Solace had escaped the worst savagery of the storm, but it still bore the aftermath of the wind that had torn through its streets. Ships in states from near wreck to barely touched had arrived at various speeds, some barely limping into its confines since the gale force winds had dropped away, replaced with soft warm sunshine and gentle breezes. 

Ash stretched his muscles, enjoying the early evening warmth as he idled on the sea wall. He had been paying the dockmasters boy a penny a day to report in to him on each vessel that arrived. So far only merchant vessels were moored. Each bidding for the resources and workmen to replace and mend damaged masts, sails and rigging. He lifted his head as the youngster scrambled up to him. “Two merchants more today and The Pipistrelle is leaving. Pilot says there’s a vessel coming North along the coast, a Brigantine under the Dutch flag. Heavy damage to her jib, but otherwise unscathed. Aw thanks, Mister.” He stared bog eyed at the fresh silver coin in his hand, before nodding and running away.

Ash stood slowly and stretched. He might be wrong, but he’d lay odds on this mystery Dutch vessel being the Impala. The damage to her jib gave the perfect excuse to drape sails over her figurehead, so he couldn’t be sure until they docked… but yup… he’d lay odds on it.

\---

He was waiting on the side of the dock as the customs official, tucking a pearl bracelet and additional silver into his already overstuffed britches with a smile and a nod strolled down the gangplank. He gave Ash a gentle bow, ready to call this ship an angel chariot let alone mark her down as ‘De Antilope’ in his records with the size of the bribe.

“Honestly, the wretched excuses for humanity they leave floating on the dockside!” 

Ash grinned. Fitzgerald. “And yet still the Captain hasn’t thrown you overboard with the rest of the fetid leftovers!” He retorted.

They hugged briefly as Ash scrambled aboard. “You’ve saved me my last duty of the day. Captain asked me to come ashore and find you. Still, I may yet have occasion to let you buy me an ale,” Fitzgerald smiled his goofiest grin. “We’re all to take our shore leave. Any man as does not wish to continue aboard to make their intentions known. Captain’s in his quarters. Although tis somewhat crowded in there.”

Crowded? Ash was about to ask, but Garth was already away down the plank, chasing after his crewmates to make merry.

A familiar, very tall figure was ducking out of the cabins and coming towards him. Ash gave himself a moment to be sure his eyes were not playing tricks. “I weren’t expecting to see you aboard, young man!”

“Jo’s here, too.” Sam said, “She’s in the main cabin. Bobby is no easy patient, but he at least minds his manners when Jo is acting nurse.”

“And why does Bobby need a nursemaid? And Jo. Is Ellen here, too?”

“Bobby just needs rest and no, she’s not...” Sam was blushing and hiding behind a curtain of hair. The mere mention of Ellen enough to cause this reaction: He would lay his soul as collateral that young Sam was or had been up to mischief.

“Well, if the plan is for me to take you back, I’m gonna want danger money. I’ll find an excuse to spend a few days in the stable when we get back! Or mebbe I’ll just drop you off and ride straight back to port. Ellen is gonna tan your hides make no mistake.” Sam gave him a rueful look and gestured him inside. “Perhaps Bobby’s misfortune will be your salvation. She’ll be too busy either werriting over or castigating him for whatever ails him, that she may be distracted enough not to notice.”

“Hm,” Sam mumbled. “Somehow I don’t think anything short of a miracle is going to save me.”

\---

The cabin did indeed look crowded. Ash took in the extra bunks and the assorted men sat around the table. He sucked a low whistle through his teeth. “Well, I’ll be damned if you don’t make me feel the homunculus,” he mumbled. “S’a good job y’all seated or I’d be getting a crick in my neck!” 

Dean laughed. “Ash. This is my good friend Benjamin Lafitte.” Recognition of the name flared briefly across Ash’s face. “And this is Lieutenant Milton.” Ash frowned. ‘Lieutenant’ Milton did not look much like a navy man, let alone an officer. Dark hair, cropped short, improbably blue eyes in a face that did not look weather beaten enough to have spent time at sea and the relaxed garb not unlike Dean’s own. When he realised the man had filled and passed him a beaker of wine in the time it had taken Dean to make the introductions, he decided it mattered little what he looked like. On present evidence, he was on the right side of Ash’s ledger. He took a swig, and raised his beaker in salute, it was a darn sight better than the grog he’d been swilling in port all week.

“You best be giving me a few bottles of this for fortification, if you’re fixing for me to take your younger guests back to the Inn. Ellen ain’t gonna be none to pleased. I take it you had no idea they intended on a little sea voyage.”

Dean nodded, “Stowaways. Most of the crew think they're Bobby’s. I must admit, I’m glad Ellen’ll have had a few days to cool off before I have to visit. Reckon you can get a wagon to carry Bobby? He lashed his stupid self to the wheel during the storm and damn near killed himself. He ain’t gonna be up to the ride.” 

The naval lieutenant looked pensive and Ash thought he was about to say something, but he cut him off. “No sweat, man. I’ve got my contacts and you give me enough coin and I could buy me the whole town!” 

“He’s still very weak,” Dean explained. “Not that he’ll thank me for saying it.”

“We’ve been watching him round the clock between us and his fever only broke properly yesternight.” Sam added, earnestly.

“I tried to convince him to stay ashore for a few weeks, but the stubborn ole coot will only go if I promise to sail straight there as soon as we’ve got the repairs finished, that should give him a full week or two of Ellen’s tender mercies…”

“The ‘Ole Coot’ is quite willing to kick your smart ass a week into Tuesday.” Bobby’s gruff voice interrupted their conversation as he pushed open the door to the cabin, leaning heavily on Jo for support. “Now what damn fool plan are you cooking up without the best brains aboard?”

Jo nudged Sam gently and passed him three of four rolls of parchment from behind her back. They looked shyly at one another and Sam cleared his throat, “We… uh.... That is Jo…”  

Castiel took the scrolls from the youngster’s hands, “I’ll put these with the charts. The Captain shall be very glad of your diligent work when he comes to set our course.” He turned back to the men around the table. “Miss Harvelle has been working on some suggestions for making use of seasonal tides. She has a strong grasp of navigation and Sam has been carrying out the calculations to take best advantage of them.”

Sam merely stared at his hands, but Jo Harvelle flushed heavily under the praise. Bobby patted her hand. “You go get some rest, JoBeth. You’ve whole trunks of black shadow under your eyes and it will be a long couple of days with no respite at the end of it, for in a day or three you will be facing a much more critical audience.”

\---

They settled around the table and Dean watched with some gratitude as Cas took care of Bobby so subtly that the old man seemed to scarcely notice. Ash regaled them with tales of his week in port.

“...you’re bigger than Robin Hood,” Ash chuckled. “There’s ladies the length and breadth of the coast keeping clippings of your daring do tucked lord knows where. If even the half of it is true, you’re on your way to being a legend in your own lifetime!” Ash chortled. “I even overheard a brothel roleplay of ‘brave’ Cap’n Smith ravishing two lovelies…”

Benny spluttered his beer and Ash patted him heavily on the back, wiping his own eyes with the back of his hand. Even Sam seemed amused, although he blushed a sunset at the mention of a brothel.

Dean glared half-heartedly under the laughter. Only the Lieutenant didn’t seem to be enjoying their mirth. He sat slightly aloof, watching Dean with a thoughtful expression.

Bobby cleared his throat. “On that note, I think I’ll take my leave of y’all. Make sure both these young ‘uns are settled in for the night.” He leant heavily on Sam who bore his weight with ease. 

\---

Castiel stood to open and then close the door behind them, taking the opportunity to stretch his back. Behind him the candles sputtered briefly in the air currents. The men around the table continued to chat softly, both Benny and Ash teasing Dean about his newfound fame. Cas worried at his lip, he had been conscious of Dean’s attention while they all laughed and joked. He could not enjoy it, all pirates were an annoyance to the might of the Royal Navy, captured or destroyed wherever possible, but accepted as a pest, like the rats aboard ship.This was something altogether different and more dangerous.

The very compassion and integrity and sheer humour with which Dean operated, his greatest strengths were also his greatest undoing. The Righteous Man was fast becoming not only too well known, but too popular. And if Castiel knew one thing, it was that the arrogance and pride of the Royal Navy would not tolerate a pirate hero. It would not be enough to just stop him, they would seek to humiliate him and use him as an example to others. 

...so,” Ash concluded, “The Dreadnought is due in port within the week. She’s the only naval vessel expected. The dockmaster’s boy’s a clever lad, worth twice the clerks all put together. Tis obvious, he tells me. No point having a vessel that showy unless you sail it into the major ports for all to see. The Dreadnought will call here, then move Southward stopping at every major port and inlet. Ultimately heading for Port Royal.”

“Well that throws our plans out.” Dean said, eyes firmly fixed on the table. “I can’t let you go aboard Alastair’s ship, Benny. He may believe me dead, but he’ll still bear a grudge against you for your interference. Even under the chaperone of your own senior officer, I don’t trust him not to act on it.”

“He’s bastard enough to find a way,” Benny confirmed.

Castiel shrugged. “Then with your leave, we stay aboard the Impala. Benny was last known boarding the Impala to rescue me, if I appear without him it will be too suspicious, we go together or not at all. If we’re in port when The Dreadnought arrives we can’t refuse passage back. I’ll go ashore in the morning and send word via despatch that we are making our way back towards Port Royal aboard merchant vessels, that will at least keep us both free of any charges.”

A little flower of happiness bloomed among the darkness of his worries at the thought of extending his stay on board.

\---

Dean watched Ash meander away across the moorings in the direction of the port. He disappeared into the dark shadows at the mouth, was highlighted briefly in the spilled light of a tavern, still bawdy despite the hour and then vanished from view. The night was warm, but it was not the sweat slicked humidity that sometimes fell like a blanket over the area, it was dry and clear. He pulled his tunic over his head and let the breeze cool his skin. The sky sparkled, the lack of moon allowing the stars to shine their brightest. Benny had long since slipped away below decks and the Impala was quiet, all soft shadows and gentle noises. Even the stench of the harbour could not overwhelm the sweetness of the breeze blowing up from the South. He had reached a point where he could not really imagine life beyond this vessel and this crew. He had not chosen this life, but it had become his…but once Alastair was taken care of... He was so lost in thought that the sudden voice behind him startled him.

“It’s a pretty perfume, isn’t it.” 

“Cas!” Dean spluttered. “Dear heaven, Milton, if you’re gonna keep doing that I’ll have to get the smithy to fit you with a bell!” He turned and saw the flash of Cas’ teeth as he grinned at him.

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to startle you.” Dean turned back to gaze out across the inky water to the smattering of lights that shone in windows and doorways, earthbound twinkling stars. Poor imitations of their heavenly counterparts. The Lieutenant settled next to him, he seemed so at home aboard the ship that it would be easy to forget that he must leave it and return to his naval career. Dean could not… would not… let himself do that. “My mother grew lilies in France,” Cas continued softly and Dean felt himself lulled by the gravelly voice, “but she said they had nothing to compare to the beauty of the sight and scent of Bougainvillea. My father told us it was typical of my mother to prefer something wild and untamed rather than formally trained, he said she was always drawn to rebels and outlaws. Apparently she used to tease him that it explained why she loved him.”

“Hah!” Dean said. “Perhaps it runs in the family!” His laughter caught in his throat, the implications of his remark suddenly hitting home, he had not meant it that way. He had just meant that Cas was enjoying the pirate life, but now he realised… dammit. He was blushing again. Thank heaven it was too dark to see. It mattered what Cas thought of him. It mattered a lot, but he couldn’t let it. He had to ensure that Benny and Cas and everyone else he cared about was safe, because when he tackled Alastair, he could not be sure he would survive.  

Apparently, he was not the only one preoccupied with thoughts of The Dreadnought and her Captain. “He gave you these, didn’t he?” Cas voice was suddenly tiny and tight. His elbow was no longer almost brushing Dean’s instead his fingers traced one of the many scars that criss-crossed his back. Dean shuddered and Cas withdrew his hand, beginning to apologise and pull away. He could lie. He could tell himself he did not mourn the loss of the touch. He could let Cas pull away. Let him leave without ever once knowing… Or he could just accept that this thing between them was not imaginary. He could just let himself have this, however brief it might be. The heady scent and the subtle thrum of the claret in his veins… his practical thoughts were heavily outgunned. He turned his head and closed the gap between them before he could deny himself this simple pleasure.

Their lips brushed and he heard a little ‘oh’, felt the breath of it against the corner of his mouth, and then Cas was pushing back. Lips parting, and they  _ were _ paper soft, supple and firm and gentle all at once. The strawberry rough texture of Cas’ tongue pressed against the crease of his lips. He tasted of the sweet claret. And all that Dean could smell was the flower he now knew to be called Bougainvillea and the hint of ozone that seemed to cling to Cas the minute he stepped on deck.

Before he really thought about it his hands were tangling in those tantalising soft curls, just like he had been imagining ever since Cas had let Garth trim his hair. Fingers flexed against the skin of his waist and back, and he thought briefly, angrily, how unfair it was that he did not have the same access to all that fine tanned surface in return. They were clumsy, noses bumped, stubbled chins caught against each other and they both began to laugh softly. Resting their foreheads and regaining their breath. Somewhere above him, high in the rigging, he swore he heard a quiet voice say. “At last.” 

Seizing the initiative he twined his fingers through the hand which had dropped to rest at his hip and lead Cas back into the map room, with it’s temporary bunks and all those gloriously flat surfaces.

\---

As always he was the first to wake. But he could not silently ease himself from his bunk and sneak away to find coffee today. Nor lean on his elbow and indulge in the guilty pleasure of watching the Captain sleep.

For he was thoroughly entwined, to the point even he wasn’t sure he ended and Dean began, so that it was impossible to move. “Morning sunshine.” He drew in his chin and peered at one open, mostly alert eye, the movement of Dean’s mouth tickling his chest. Light streamed through the cracks in the shutters, striping them as they lay naked and tangled, sprawled across the combined mattresses, no longer separated by a meagre strip of uncovered bunk.

He smiled and kissed the freckled nose. Dean screwed his face up in protest at the weirdly affectionate gesture. Last night they had rutted like spring bucks, too fired up with weeks of unresolved tension to make it special or memorable. As if they both needed to get this first one out of the way before they could move on to the next level. 

Cas closed his eyes and the images flickered into his mind. Green, lust blown eyes, white teeth blanching those luscious plump lips. Breathing haphazard and jagged, mingling with kisses and groans and moans as they both surged to a messy, too fast, over far too quickly climax. Kissing and nuzzling at each others faces and necks until they both fell asleep, their faces raw with the repeated contact. The last thing he remembered was the sweet, tickling sensation of Dean’s fingers smoothing over his skin.

He gasped as sharp teeth nipped and pinched at his nipple, snapping him back to the present. His eyes flew open and he watched those same luscious, plump lips and fine white teeth working at him, fascinated as Dean kissed and nibbled. He cursed mildly as Dean blew softly on the now hypersensitive nub of flesh, feeling the grin against his skin as eyes full of humour and lust met his own, before Dean once again dipped his head, laving the nipple and the skin around it with kitten licks and the barest of nips. Cas’ cock, already showing subtle interest in proceedings surged to attention and he groaned, letting his head fall back into the pillow. Dean slid one free hand over his mouth, muffling the sounds he was making, and then slid further down the expanse of surprisingly soft skin, peppering Cas’ stomach and chest with soft red marks that might or might not bruise. Dean kissed the line of the sharply angled hip bone, making Cas gasp beneath the hand clamped over his mouth.

Cas licked at the back of the fingers pressed against his lips, and Dean shifted his hold to let his fingers slide into Cas’ mouth. Cas sucked at the softly salted pads, enjoying the weight against his tongue. This time it was Dean who moaned. Fate contriving to let his moan coincide with the exact moment at which he closed his own lips to apply a little suction and Cas’ hips jolted forward in response, choking Dean with the sudden intrusion. 

Dean moved his other hand to grasp at the softness of Cas’ ball sack, simultaneously rolling them against each other, while using his grip to restrict Cas movements with a delicious tug that twinged just the right side of painful. Cas’s vision blacked as his eyes rolled back and he lost himself to the combination of sensations. He was not going to last long under this level of attention and he rocked as much as the subtle restraint would allow, feeling the bunching warmth in the pit of his stomach and his lower back growing more intense.

\---

Cas was addictively beautiful. So responsive, every noise, every whimper, every murmur, every moan, the undulations of muscle under the soft layer of flesh, every reaction he made drove Dean on, seeking the next. He was torn between wanting to watch Cas fall apart and wanting to use his own mouth to draw more of those gorgeous sounds. He was drowning in the taste, smell and sound of Cas, and still he craved more.

He used his lips and teeth to peak Cas’ nipple to a sharp point, blowing gently across it, before kissing the soft brown of the freckle that had held his fascination for days. He rolled his hips against the mattress, using the friction to alleviate some of his own need, so that he could better concentrate on Cas. He hovered over the angular hip bones, before leaving a bunch of crimped roses blooming along first one side and then the other as he nipped and sucked the skin. He used his tongue to tease at his destination, lapping at the clear bead of precum, smirking with anticipation at the reaction he was going to provoke, only to find himself overwhelmed by the sheer pleasure of the sudden warmth and the gentle massage of Cas’ tongue against his own fingertips, catching him almost as much by surprise as the moan that escaped his own mouth. He gagged slightly as Cas jolted into his throat, but caught himself just in time, swallowing round the intrusion and using his free hand to grip and massage the soft pulp of Cas’ balls. 

Cas gave a soft prolonged whimper and Dean almost lost it himself with the sound of it, a ripple of pure pleasure rolling through him, even as he tried to concentrate on bringing Cas to the brink. Cas’ hips were rocking as much as Dean’s grip would allow. His movements becoming frenzied, panting and straining, one hand bunching the blankets the other straying into Dean’s hair, still somehow remaining a gentle weight despite every other strung out muscle from his flexed toes to the taut lines of his neck where he had thrown his head back into his pillow. Dean shifted his position, dropping his weight onto the elbow between Cas legs, dragging his other hand free of Cas’ mouth, scratching his nails down, snagging at a nipple and leaving a trail of parallel marks all the way down his torso and over one thigh so he could use his freehand to give himself something to thrust into. Cas gave a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan, his flexing fingers an attempt at a warning. The combination of fingernails scraping his scalp and the flood of salty warmth across his tongue had Dean juddering into his own fist. He gave a stifled groan, but somehow still managed to concentrate on milking Cas through his orgasm, each and every tremor he managed to wring from Cas’ shuddering body provoking his own little pleasured aftershocks.

He swallowed one final time and then with a long striping lick, that had Cas squirming and whining with over-sensitivity, he slid gently up the bed. Grinning smugly. The hand cradling his nape tightened, gripping at the short hair and Cas’ other hand closed over his jaw, dragging him into a passionate, filthy kiss. But not before he caught the quick gleam of 'oh you smug bastard’ in the blue that almost immediately disappeared into crinkled smiles. Chests heaving, skin gleaming softly in the morning sunlight peaking through the shutters, they rolled into each other, sharing hot breath and the press of lips and soft touches as they recovered. Their movements slowed, all languid caresses and slow, lazy kisses, as they lay together, sated, and basking in the afterglow.


	13. Interlude six

**Dorsetshire, many years before**

 

Captain John Winchester waved a cheerful farewell to Bobby Singer, shouldering his canvas bag and jumping aboard the cart loaded with his trunk. By nightfall he would be home with his wife and two young sons. His naval pension had secured a farmhouse and enough land to keep them securely. Mary had moved in nearly two months since with their boys to set up home, while he finished his last tour. He had spent a couple of days in the harbour finalising the details of resigning his position, time served. 

He had re-read her letter and kissed her signature so many times that the ink had faded. Not that it mattered he knew its contents by heart. She had wanted to bring the boys down to meet him as he left his ship, but he wanted them as far away from the sea as was possible. It had long been his intention to ensure that he set his sons up for life as country gentlemen. 

His first sight of his infant son would not take place with the smell of the harbour fresh in his nostrils.

\---

They shoved his trunk into the animal shelter at the top of the path down to the house. He would fetch it in the morning, he was too keen to reach his family to bother with it tonight. He stood at the edge of the track as the cart rumbled away. The local carter keen to get back to his own family. John enjoyed a moment, looking down the valley at his land. His. The anticipation of the close of a journey nearly at an end and the reunion with his family lifting his heart. He could smell the woodsmoke of the fire, moonlight shone over the fields and glinted off the shale walls and shingle roof of the simple two-storey farmhouse. 

For one last time, he shouldered his canvas bag and strode down the track, the sensation of heavy hobbled boots striking the ground, unfamiliar after so many years in soft soles.

Somewhere within a fire was glowing, warm and welcome, it’s orange glow danced against the window. He drew closer and then realised he could hear the cries of his baby boy. He knew they would not be welcome normally, but tonight they sounded like the sweetest thing he had ever heard. He quickened his pace, heavy hand falling on the handle on the front door. He allowed himself a moment of pride at how handsome the door looked. Solid oak, framed by carefully cut stones. He smiled as it failed to turn, after all at this time of night it was only right that his wife had locked it. He could hear the baby still wailing inside, so he made his way round to the back, dropping a hand and hopping lightly over the low wall that separated the kitchen garden from the paddock to the rear. 

His boots sank into tilled soil and he grimaced. If he had just heavy booted Mary’s careful planting he would be in trouble in the morning. He tried the latch, but the door was barred. He knocked on it. “Mary?” He heard movement inside, and the baby’s cries became more muted, but still, no-one came to the door. Maybe she was trying to feed. He moved towards the window and peered through the thick pebbled distortion of the glass. He let his bag drop to the ground.

He shifted his head back and forth, heart seized in panic, making sense of the shapes he thought he could see. A blanket cloaked shape lay on the floor under the table edge. The bubbles in the glass distorted the image too much. Was that a stockinged foot or just a loose end of cloth? He hammered on the door again. “Mary! Mary!” He caught sight of a movement inside. A tiny figure, an upturned face, backing away, he saw the flash of a blade in a tiny fist. Taking stock he stepped back and knocked a rock loose from the dry stone wall. The window to the right of the door was larger, he could see the latch glinting in the moonlight. He moved towards it, took aim and smashed the pointed rock against the weakest looking pane of the opening window.


	14. Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we learn just how stupid our heroes can be.

**No Fool Like an Old Fool**

 

Cole had found lodgings in the relative comfort of a boarding house just at the point above the port, where the narrow streets widened and became somewhat cleaner. His host, Mr Peterson, a jovial, portly man who took his money and provided a hearty stew that was so good it perhaps explained the man’s paunchy stature. Cole had taken his leave of the Impala shortly after they docked, handed a small money pouch and a few items of jewelry. It was generous. He had not really allowed himself to believe up until the point he stood on the dock that the pirate crew would really follow through on their promises. Good things apparently _did_ happen.

“Be wary,” Fitzgerald had told him. “Don’t board the first vessel that offers you passage. Ask about. Stay a week and get the gossip. Keep close counsel and listen, you’ll hear soon enough which Captains are to be trusted.”

Even this boarding house had been recommended to him. He sighed as he sank back into the bed. The linen was fresh, there was no sign of bed bugs. His stomach was full. His mind at ease. He slept soundly.

\---

“That’s the last of it,” Fitzgerald said as he loosed the winch from another stack of timber and swung the hook back from the deck towards the dock.

“You look like you spent a week with Davy Jones, not a night ashore,” Dean commented wryly.

Garth shrugged and promptly winced.

“Finish stowing and get yourself some food.” Dean rolled his eyes as Garth ran to the side rail and retched noisily. Luckily he was waterside and not dockside.”Tran!” The sudden shout made Garth flinch further. His bony shoulders rounding, so that he looked more hedgehog than pirate. Tran’s cheerful face appeared from somewhere towards the forecastle. “Work your magic, Tran. Get my crew somewhere near ship shape. I don’t care what you give ‘em, just get ‘em functioning. We shall sail just after the noon meal.”

Dean had been feeling uneasy since he had set Bobby ashore with his ragtag team of caretakers. Ash had arrived, true to his word, with a covered wagon and four horses, two between the staves and two hitched for following. Bobby grumbled repeatedly about being fine to ride. His face, always lined, looked drawn and grey despite his weathered colouring, but he was refusing point blank to get in the wagon. Dean had turned back to answer some question about the materials they had acquired for repairs and when he returned from giving his instructions to Garth for the fourth time that morning, Bobby was meekly climbing into the wagon and settling on a comfortable looking pile of velvet cushions alongside Jo. Sam took up his seat beside Ash and with a wave from his brother as Ash flicked the reins, they were off heading up the rutted track that lead from the port towards the South.

Dean had stared after them, still puzzling over Bobby’s abrupt change of attitude. His attention caught by Benny and Cas. They were stood on the dock and although he could not hear the content of their conversation, he saw Benny throw back his head and laugh. But it was not Benny he was watching intently. Cas was smiling and although his face crinkled with amusement the blue of his eyes seemed to catch the sunlight. His dark hair gleaming, even in his borrowed casual clothes, he looked too fine for his surroundings. The fitted trouser, strapped tightly over his knee-high boots and the soft tunic certainly fitted his muscular frame, showing off strong thighs and well-built shoulders. Then with a final clap to his back between those very shoulders, Benny was turning back towards the gangplank and Cas was away into the port.

\---

Cas climbed steadily up through the small town above the wharf. The streets were roughly cobbled and little trails of dirt at the gutters still showed the flow of dust and debris from the storm. From every place could be heard the sound of sawing, or hammering. It had been lightly hit considering the strength of the winds.

The remembrance of the howl of the wind and the slashing cut of the rain was still fresh in his mind. As was the look on Dean’s face when he had realised that Bobby was still alive. A mirror to his own relief. He realised he would sacrifice just about anything to see that simple, happy smile.

\---

“I’m wondering whether I should accuse you of witchcraft,” Benny grinned at Dean. He looked lost in thought, staring at the activity on deck without really seeing anything.

“Huh?”

“All this, the whole town is under repair, not to mention the shipping. I thought we would be waiting weeks for supplies and yet, here, you have not just sufficient but a surfeit… and all of the best quality…”

“Ash,” Dean said simply, by way of explanation. “The quality of his ‘contacts’ is no idle boast.” Dean paused. “On the subject of witchcraft, what spell was cast over Bobby? I was beginning to fear we would have to wait until nightfall and place him snoring in the cart.”

“Ah, you have the Lieutenant to thank for that.

“Cas… I mean… erm… Milton? What did he have to do with it.”

Benny ignored his stumble, except for the twitch of amusement at his cheeks. “‘Milton’ is a great reader of people, Dean, his use of an Achilles heel or well-placed praise smoothed many a potential trouble on board The Swallow. As he was taking his leave of the young lady, he merely praised Miss Harvelle for her stoicism and lack of complaint at not being able to ride home in a saddle. For .. now how did he put it… she was the most capable young lady of his acquaintance and yet she accepted such 'inconveniences as we ridiculously over chivalrous men would throw in her way, purely to salve and soothe our egos’.”

“He said that in front of Bobby?!”

“Oh no,” Benny grinned. “He’s much too subtle for that. He said all ‘that’ quietly to Miss Harvelle through the side flaps of the wagon, just loudly enough for Bobby to over hear. I only caught it myself because I was out of his line of sight behind the wagon. Bobby looked fit to choke, then his mouth set grim and his eye rolled. Then grumbling about being “shown to be a proud old fool by a boy barely yet in his trousers’ he gripped my hand and climbed aboard beside the girl.”

Dean chuckled. “Small wonder that she is so infatuated with him when he gives her such pretty speeches.”

“Nah,” Benny’s words strained as he stretched, arms behind his head, looking relieved as his back cracked. “He has let her down with gentle kindness.”

“How so?” He could, of course, ask such a question because she was as near to kin as his own blood. A sister to him in all but name. Of course. He felt the blush at his neck and determined not to let it reach his face.

“He told her this very morning that his heart was taken by another,” Benny smirked. “He meant it, too. And yet in all the time I’ve known him, he’s never mentioned anyone. I suspect,” The smirk intensified, “that the attachment is a recent one.”

Keep his blush at his neckline? Canute had more success with the tide.

“You certainly seem to think very highly of him.” Dean gripped the back of his neck and ducked his head, suddenly very aware of Benny’s amused gaze.

Benny clapped a hand on his shoulder, letting his fingers flex briefly into the tension under his grip. “He’s a good man, Dean. Loyal, brave and almost too damned clever for his own good. He sees men for who they are and that is a rare skill. He can be a little stubborn sometimes, I grant you. He’s had a tough life and yet for all that he has lost none of his kindness or his gentle ways. He still managed to hold his own on a naval vessel, too. You of all people should know how rare a quality it is to remain that true to yourself in such conditions.”

Dean sighed heavily. A clattering rattle, a panicked shout from below and a terrific splash broke the intensity of the moment. And they both laughed as Garth was hauled back up onto the deck, spluttering and soaked. Tran gave the Captain a little wave and Dean shook his head.

“What the hell happened there?” Benny asked.

“I think Master Tran has taken me at my word and decided the best cure for a hangover is cold salt water.”

 

**Fool’s Errand**

 

Cas sealed his brief report with a glob of wax and passed it to the wigged clerk. The man had looked him up and down rather pointedly when he presented himself as a naval officer.

“Forgive my casual attire, the mishap that parted me from my commission involved a spell in the ocean. I am fortunate it is only my uniform coat that lies with Davy Jones.”

The clerk sniffed but made no comment. There was a pile of correspondence still unopened in a satchel on the desk behind him and he had the fraught look of a man with too much work to do and an awareness of its importance. Castiel felt for him.

“This needs to reach the Commodore’s office as soon as possible. I have money to pay a carryman to take it the quickest route.” The clerk nodded. “Please, accept any surplus as a token of gratitude,” Cas said a little more firmly and pushed the over-generous amount of coin over the counter along with his sealed parchment.

The clerk’s weary gaze dropped onto the counter and he gaped in surprise. Castiel gave him a smile and took his leave with a little bow.

\---

The offices were the only property of solid stone construction he had come across in the town and the contrast from the dark cool quiet of the stone building to the brilliance of the daylight was all the more striking, blinding him temporarily, an intensified, concentrated version of sensation when he dipped his head aboard the Impala to step out onto the deck from Dean’s quarters. The sun was high in the sky and he shaded his eyes against its glare. It was a beautiful day, the steepness of the climb out of the port gave him a clear view out over the water. Sparkling and shining under the benign but disinterested sun. He scanned the horizon out of habit, noting the ships and guestimating their velocity with a skilled and well-practiced eye. Even knowing the class and nationality of many purely by their shape in the water.

He had best make haste, he knew that Dean was eager to set sail as soon as they had loaded the supplies, intending to set off just after the noon meal, a time more traditionally spent at rest. They could not carry out the repairs here without exposing the Impala’s figurehead and she was too distinctive, even under the Dutch name and flag it would fool no-one for long. The temptation of the reward on Dean’s head might be too much, even for the practiced neutrality of the local population.

He walked down the narrow streets, taking care where he was placing his feet, although the one blessing of such a storm was that it flushed the filth from the gullies and gutters. He was still looking down when he rounded the corner onto the slightly wider cobbled thoroughfare that ran straight all the way down to the docks. He raised his head and stared in disbelief. Doing a quick double check. The Impala had slipped her mooring and was heading out through the mouth of the harbour wall. He ran, not caring where his feet fell, the cobbles striking up through the soft souls of his boots. He scanned the horizon again as he ran, careless of everything but the departing ship. Perhaps they had spied a naval flag among the incoming vessels. Without the luxury of a glass, he could not make out the true nature of all of the incoming shipping. He was almost at the neck of the port and could see Dean on the quarterdeck. The surface under his feet changed from rough cobble to flat planking and he skidded to a halt, catching a breath and calling a shout.

They would not be able to halt, but he called anyway. For the briefest of moments, he saw Dean’s head turn and he was sure he had seen him, but there was no answering call. He bent and dropped his hands to his knees. It seemed unlike Dean to take flight, when for the want of a few minutes he could have been back aboard. Castiel had only had one destination, so Dean would know exactly where to send a messenger to call him back quickly. Was it a mistake? If so then why had Dean merely turned his head back to sea? Had he intended this all along? Some misguided attempt to protect him? They had their strategy worked out, dammit.

His breath recovered quickly, but the pain in his chest did not subside. It had nothing to do with the run.

\---

Bobby slept for much of the first morning. He was far more exhausted, weakened by his fever than he had been prepared to admit.  Even to himself. Until Milton’s stage whisper to Jo had pressed him to accept the truth of his own foolish pride.

They stopped just after noon, resting and watering the horses under the shade of a sprawl of live oaks, old man’s beard swaying softly in a light breeze where it hung loosely from the knobbly branches.

Sam and Jo unhitched the horses from the wagon, acting in tandem, a well-oiled team, giving Bobby the privacy to clamber awkwardly from the back of the wagon. He hobbled to the bulbous bows running close to the ground and settled helping Ash to set a fire to heat billy cans of water that the two youngsters brought back from the nearby stream.

They stretched out, drinking coffee and eating the feast of bread, cheese, and meats that Ash had produced from a bushel on the wagon, while the heat of the day passed over them.

\---

The Impala danced over the waves, spray flashing up along her sides. They would do much of the repairs as they sailed, dropping into one of the many secluded bays should they need to work at anchor. Dean swallowed heavily staring at the tangle of leather and rope in his hand. He closed his eyes briefly. What a difference a few short hours could make. This morning the world had seemed so bright.

All preparations to sail had been made well before noon and all they had awaited was the return of Castiel from his despatches. Dean had strolled across the deck, humming softly to himself as he inspected the work of his crew. With a flash of mild irritation, he had spotted a pile of discarded rope and leather straps tucked under the edge of a load of canvas. Someone had either missed them in their haste or deliberately pushed them out of sight. He had scraped them out with his boot, they were mere scraps, offcuts, of no real use to anyone. The severed ends had been cut by a sharp blade leaving the knots intact. A blade that had blazed in his retina in the midst of a maelstrom.

But it was the knots that had held his attention, just as they did right now. He was holding the bindings that had held Bobby fast to the helm. These knots that had been too tight for him to free himself. Knots that had nearly killed him. Knots tied in the French style.

\---

Benny was deep in the lower decks when he caught the telltale groan of timbers under strain. He heard the mumbling calls and whistles of the sail orders. That meant the Lieutenant must be back and Dean had decided to make progress while the tide was favourable. He, himself, was busy helping Tran with the injured sailor, but he would join them on deck when he was finished. This man had declared that he had no home or family save those aboard the Impala and leaving her, even with a busted arm was unthinkable. So, for now, he was safely stowed in Bobby’s empty birth. He complained of the fuss, claiming himself a nuisance until Tran said firmly. “Seven days. Just while the bone starts to knit and your flesh heals. Then if you must lie in a hammock, you can. Seven days now, or seven years of pain.”

Benny patted his good shoulder. “You know the Captain will set you ashore if you ignore Tran’s good counsel. Where sickness is concerned this boy is the Impala’s master and commander.”

The sailor rolled his eyes but rested back on the softness of the bunk.

“He’ll sleep now,” Tran said softly. “He has the constitution of an elephant bull, but that drought has enough opiate to give dreams of the Indias.”

\---

In the afternoon, Sam relinquished his seat to Jo and joined Bobby among the piles of cushions. Bobby watched the boy sleep, and in sleep, he was very much still a boy, despite his height and muscular frame. They hit a particularly rough patch of road and his eyes fluttered open, hazel gold under the muted shade of the canvas.

He sat up and took a swig from the flask of water Bobby proffered. They sat in silence for a while, until Bobby took pity on him.

“Out with it, Sam. Those two can’t hear us over the rut of the track and the rush of the wind if you keep your voice low. What is it?”

The eyes that flicked over his old face were almost green now. He wondered at how they could change colour so rapidly, it seemed more than a trick of the light. His wide shoulders heaved up and down with the strength of a sigh long held.

“I heard you. That night. At the Inn.” Bobby’s face remained unchanged, so he ploughed on. “That’s why I had to try and get aboard the ship. It wasn’t just some childish whim to spend more time with Dean, or some stupid lust for adventure…”

“I know you better than to assume it was, son. But what exactly did you overhear?”

“The Dreadnought. And this Alastair. I know the navy was hell for Dean and that they nearly killed him. But why can’t he let it go? I remember what it was like those first few weeks at the Inn. I heard him crying every night, when he was delirious with it.” Sam shuddered and Bobby thought back to those terrible weeks when they were not sure he would make it. The constant vigilance over infection, the possibility that the shock would finish him, so much pain and blood.

“Why does he want to get this man so badly that he is willing to die to do it? I can keep a secret Bobby. I know exactly what saved Dean’s life. And I’ve never told a soul.”

Bobby stared at him in surprise. “You know about Victor?”

Sam nodded. He dropped his head and then raised it again to look Bobby in the eye, a faint blush painting his cheeks. “I met him in the woods the day before you found him in the stables. That’s why he was there. I brought him back with me and stole bread and ale from the parlour.”

Bobby chuckled. “Well, I’ll be…”

“You’re not mad?”

“No, son. Mad at you for caring for a man in need? I always wondered how he made it there. He never told on you.”

“He wouldn’t,” Sam said adamantly. “He would never break a trust. It was… He’s… too honourable. And I wasn’t going to let him be caught and dragged back to the plantations, I was determined to find a way to help him. It was quite a relief when you found him because I really didn’t know what to do.”

There had been no need. There was no way that Bobby or Ellen would have let a man be taken back to slavery. Victor had no memory of his homeland, no name, save the one given to him by a man who thought him property. He did not even know where his mother was or if he had other family. His only hope was to head south, overland through the Spanish territories, where the jungles and hills were still wild and uncharted, or to join a pirate vessel. He opted for taking his chances to the South. Had been all set to go, when despite their best efforts to keep Dean quiet Victor heard his fevered calls. When he saw the mess of blooded rags, he’d offered to help and they were desperate.

Bobby would never forget that night. Fetching and bringing the ingredients while Victor mixed a concoction so foul and acrid that Ellen had doubted they should use it. Until Victor stripped off his own shirt and showed her his back. “Pride, ma’am, is an expensive luxury for a slave. You best bring the boy something to help him through this. We need to tie him down and hold him even still. I’ve seen men break chains and tethers under the pain, and this will hurt. It will break through any amount of deliria.”

Then they sent Sam with Ash to ‘fetch supplies’, and closed the Inn.

Even bound down and with a leather strap to hold his tongue clear and give his teeth something to bite on, Dean’s screams had filled the environs, echoing off the walls. He begged and pleaded with them to stop, but they forged on, giving him the strongest liquor they had to try and dull the pain.

He passed out eventually, but even unconscious he whimpered with each fresh application. Finally, finally, with them all weak from exertion and distress, Victor seemed satisfied. “The cure is worse than the whupping.” he said sadly, “But I know no other way to save his life.” He stroked the sweat-slicked hair out of Dean’s face and loosened the leather strapped between his lips, the teeth marks so deep he had almost bitten it through.

Bobby had burned that leather strap himself as if by burning it he could eradicate some of the pain. “Victor stayed at great risk to himself,” Bobby said quietly, “Until he was sure Dean was going to be all right.”

“So that whole business in town… Ash did fake his sickness…”

Bobby nodded. “Not only that, we could have waited for those supplies...I’m sorry, boy, we didn’t want you to see and hear...It was hard enough.”

“I thought you sent me to keep me from stopping Dean going away...”

“Your brother is going to be furious with me for telling you this…but you’re old enough to know.” Bobby shook his head sadly. “Dean was not intending on going anywhere. Leastways not for a while. But he spent a lot of time with Victor, and he insisted on making sure he got safe passage across the gulf, but they were followed by a couple of bounty hunters. They’d tracked Victor as far as the area, found he wasn’t on the coastal run and double-backed to the last place they knew he’d been...”

“Victor didn’t make it! You let me think…”

“He made it Sammy. But it cost your brother. They managed to get to the coast and bought Victor passage across the gulf, but with bounty hunters on their tail, the price was high and Dean didn’t dare come back here. That’s how your brother became a pirate, to make payment for that passage with work, eventually given a captured naval vessel for his own as his spoils. Not because he _wanted_ to. The last thing he wanted to do was leave you behind. He had no choice he had to do it, to protect you. ”

Sam’s face twisted with frustration. “I am not a child! I don’t need to be ‘protected’.” Bobby heard Ash loudly asking Jo about whether they should push on through the dark for a few more miles before breaking for camp.

He rolled his eye and Sam took the warning, dropping back into the pillows, face set in stubborn lines. Bobby softened. As much like his brother in some ways as he was different in others. “No,” he said softly, “You are not, but you were a child then. And your brother had your protection drummed into him from tiny. He’s no more capable of not protecting you than he is of opting not to breathe.”

Sam closed his eyes and huffed acceptance.

“Furious as he may be with me, I judge you ready and you deserve to know everything that happened and the reason why your brother will not rest until Alastair is stopped.”

\---

**Why Do Fools Fall in Love?**

 

Cas had climbed the sea wall and watched the Impala until she disappeared from sight. He shivered, lifting his head into the cooling onshore breeze. He had only a few hours until sunset with the time he had wasted lost in thought dwelling simply on _why?_ He sat hugging his knees, thinking hard about what to do. He could try to catch the wagon. He opened the purse and counted the remaining coin. It would never be enough to buy a horse and he would never catch them on foot, besides he had nothing for his own protection but his wits and the small mother of pearl folding knife secreted in his boot.

He had been in such a hurry this morning and assumed his walk through the town to be of such short duration…he had not bothered to take anything with him. Not that he had many personal possessions on board. Besides his boots and his ring nothing he currently had was his own. He began to regret his largesse in the courier office, but even with that money back he would have been seriously short of funds. If Dean had intended to leave him behind surely he would not have left him with so little. Even Carter had been sent ashore with his possessions and his accrued share…and OK he hadn’t contributed much to earn a share, but neither had Cole and he had been given enough for passage to England. It cheered him slightly because it all pointed to his abandonment being unplanned. Although he still could not for the life of him figure out the reason.

If it had been intentional, to ensure they were not tainted by connection to a pirate vessel, Dean would have left Benny too, wouldn’t he? But then why? Dean had known he was not aboard and he was sure he had seen him stood on that dock. There was no reason for the sudden departure, it could not surely be a mistake. He scanned the vessels in the port, none looked especially significant. He ignored the tiny voice that told him maybe he was not wanted. That he was being jilted.

He was wasting time again on second-guessing the why, it was not his to know for now. He would not know until he saw the Captain again. A flush of cold passed through him. Would he ever see Dean again? Would that last fleeting glimpse as he ran down the dock be it? The thought startled him and his resolve strengthened. Pure stubborn flowing in to replace the fear. No. It would take the Impala at least a week to reach the Inn, he would walk there if he had to. Idiot. He would never make it in time, especially not if he sat here any longer wasting time moping. He dropped down lightly onto the dockboards and stopped short. “What are _you_ doing here?” the other man asked in surprise.

\---

Benny checked as he moved through the decks, without Bobby it was essential that he knew every man was about his business. He met Garth, tired and vaguely green looking, but still better than he had looked all morning. “Captain’s sent me down to rest,” he mumbled. “And to change into dry clothes.”

Tran was making his own progress through the decks, giving some men droughts and sending others to fetch themselves weak ale or water. He was, indeed, invaluable. ‘Dean  Winchester’, collector of the best of men. Did he just find the best, or did he just bring out the best that was there? Didn’t matter. Benny had been prepared to die to save Dean. Hadn’t needed to as it happened, but Dean ‘Smith’ Winchester, “The Righteous Man”, Captain of the Black Impala certainly inspired loyalty.

When he finally climbed the ladder onto the main deck, the searing heat of the sun had already peaked and they had been at sail for a few hours. He moved towards the quarterdeck, but it was empty, no sign of either Castiel or Dean. He sniggered a laugh and decided not to listen too hard, lest he hear things through the deck boards that would make him want to scratch at his ears and burn out his memory.

\---

Cole stared at the Lieutenant. They had not spoken much aboard, but he had been there when Garth handed him his spoils, had wished him luck and fair winds, in fact. “I thought you were sailing with the Impala, sir?”

Something passed across the handsome features of the Lieutenant’s face before he answered carefully and somewhat cryptically. “Plans change.”

"I am about to retire to my lodgings," Cole began tentatively, watching the man's body language closely for cues, "Would you care to join me for Supper... Unless, perhaps, you have business elsewhere to attend to..."

"Save you, I know not another soul in town." Milton's sigh was heavy as his gaze shifted back from the middle distance to Cole's face. He seemed to shake himself, as if recovering his manners, but the pleasant attention on his face was clearly a mask.

"Come keep me company a-while, then," Cole began tentatively. Adding quickly and persuasively, as it looked like the Lieutenant might refuse, "I owe quite a debt of gratitude for my treatment aboard..." he let his voice trail away and glanced about him, wary of being overheard. "I think the Captain would be glad to know I took good care of his... er... crewman."

The Lieutenant's shoulders slumped, pressing his advantage, Cole clapped an arm across his shoulder and guided him away from the harbour deeper into the port. As they moved through the town, he told the Lieutenant all about his day, seeking information on the various routes and vessels he could take back to England. 

The Lieutenant made encouraging noises and responses, adding little, until Cole mentioned his conversation with a messenger he had met just that afternoon who was travelling express, picking up fresh horses at each station Inn. "He told me, she was a beauty, as impressive a war vessel as he had ever had the privilege to see, sailing under English flags." Despite all appearances of listening politely, it was clear to Cole felt, that Milton was not entirely focussed on their conversation until he mentioned that warship.

 

\---

 

Darkness fell and the night crew took over. Benny called to Tran and with a shuffle of the rigging he materialised. “Have you seen the Captain? Or the Lieutenant?”

Tran shook his head.

“I’m going to the cabin, see if all is well. Go wake Garth for his stint at the helm and then keep watch.” The whites of Tran’s eyes gleamed at him through the dark. “What?” Benny asked.

“Ship don’t feel right,” Tran said and with no further comment he made for the hatch.

Benny shrugged. Tran was right, something was up. The doors to Dean’s quarters were all shut. He knocked first on the study and then reluctantly at Dean’s berth. There was no answer at either. He was about to return to the deck when he heard a subtle noise. The sound of something falling, it came from the map room and he swung open the door, preparing to be bawled out or to see something he didn’t wish to.

The latter was true, but not quite as he was expecting.

\---

“Have you anywhere to stay?”

Castiel shook his head. He picked at a steamed meat pudding, his manners giving him trouble to leave a plate of food so freely offered, but he had no appetite. Try as he might, every mouthful tasted sour to his palette. He pushed the plate away, a little angry at himself for being so pathetic.

“This place was recommended me by Fitzgerald,” Cole told him. “I see the food is not to your liking, but the rooms are clean and the beds are comfortable.”

“The food is perfectly good,” Cas replied instantly, “I am afraid the issue is with me. I lack the appetite for it.”

Cole half nodded but did not look convinced. “Landlord?” He called over his shoulder to the cheery, plump fellow who had produced the steaming bowls of stew. “Do you have a room for my friend here, he finds himself without a berth for the night.”

\---

Benny picked up the bottle where it had fallen to the floor, reading the label without real interest. It was cheap grog. He scratched at his beard absent-mindedly. Dean barely stirred as Benny shook his shoulder: He was pretty much out cold. Benny sighed. Where the hell was Milton? He walked back to the cabin, knocking carefully and pushed open the door. The bunk, indeed the room was empty. He pulled the bedding straight on the bunk and made his way back to the study, hoisting Dean up from the chair. It would be best for none of the crew to see him this way, except maybe Tran.

“You are a damn sight heavier than you were 8 years ago, brother,” he murmured. Something thumped to the ground behind him, but he ignored it. He would come back and retrieve it once he was sure he had Dean safely bunked. He shrugged off the temptation to dump the damn fool in the ocean.

He settled Dean into his bunk, lying him on his side and using his pillows to stop him rolling onto his back. He would call Tran, get him to make coffee, it was going to be a long night. He had just walked back into the study when Tran cannoned through the door into the passageway. “Garth says we left without him. The Captain ordered we set sail and the Lieutenant was not aboard.”

Ah. Benny bent at the middle, a leg swinging back for leverage as he scooped something from the floor of the map room. It was a knot of rope, with the ends neatly severed. He stared at it for a moment, recognising it instantly for the work of Castiel, but his brain was working hard to come up with a rational explanation for his knotwork to have caused such a complete turnabout.

\---

The moon was a brilliant perfect orb in the sky. Cole had discovered just how little money Cas had on him and had insisted on paying his night’s lodgings. He should not have wasted his money, Cas thought dully, for comfortable as the bed was he could not sleep. He perched on the window sill, watching the moon’s reflection fractured on the dark sea.

\---

His tongue was stuck to the side of his mouth and the back of his teeth.

His face was stuck to the coverlet sheet.

His eyelids were stuck to his cheeks.

His brain, his eyes and his stomach all seemed to be clamouring for his attention with levels of pain and discomfort that he remembered all too well from his first venture into ale drinking. He was fairly certain this was worse.

Somewhere behind him, someone shifted. For a moment he relaxed back, despite his sorry state.

Cas.

He jolted awake and sat up, simultaneously gripping at his head with one hand, seizing the upright of his bunk with the other, while the wave of nausea from his sudden movement threatened to turn to violent retching.

He had left him behind. He had heard him calling from the dock. He had not been able to stop himself turning to look. Dismay and disbelief held in the snapshot image in his mind.

“Ah, it awakes.” The voice was laced with something, maybe approaching derision. “I would wish you a good morning, but somehow it don’t feel appropriate.” Maybe well past derision and into outright disapproval.

He swallowed heavily and tried to provoke his mouth to produce something that did not resemble the consistency of horse glue. Something cold was thrust into his hand and he forced his eyes to open. Tran’s face met his own. For once he was the right way up. And he was definitely not grinning.

The bunk behind him dipped and he whitened his knuckles on the bedpost to keep himself from falling back. The cold water nearly caused a mutiny as it hit his stomach. “Is that the ship moving?” he croaked, “or me?”

Neither of the other two men in his cabin seemed to find his joke particularly funny. To be fair. Neither did he.

“ _Your_ crew,” Benny said, “is still sailing _your_ ship South along the Florida coast as _you_ instructed.”

He squinted at his long-time friend and found not a hint of goodwill in the normally amiable face. Tran wordlessly handed him a small vial.

“Will that help with the clarion call in my head?” he asked softly, wincing.

“It might make you feel better or not. Either way, you’ll probably vomit,” Tran answered coolly as if he cared nothing whichever outcome came about. He left the cabin.

“Garth has been at the helm for a double stint,” Benny said. “I think I’ll go relieve him. Maybe later you can explain to me why you sat hugging a french knot and swallowing a bottle of grog I wouldn’t use to clean barnacles from the privy spout. That you would get yourself in such a state when you are already so many men down…” The disappointment in Benny’s voice rankled. This was not _all_ his fault, goddammit.

“Never mind what form of brainstorm caused you to leave one of the best men I know stranded with barely any money in a port where he knows no-one.” There was an edge to Benny’s voice, that Dean had heard leveled at many who deserved it over his year or two in the navy, but never before at he himself.

It was enough and he snapped. “I had my reasons and as you so pointedly state this is _MY_ ship. I decide who sails on her and I decide when and where we go.” His head pounded in rhythm with his words.

Benny opened his mouth to say something else but clearly changed his mind. He turned on his heel and the door rattled as he closed it with enough force to make Dean flinch at the surge of pain which seared between his temples.

\---

Somewhere he heard someone catcalling in the street.

He opened his eyes and instantly winced.

He had a crick in his neck.

And his foot was numb from the pressure of the window sill under his thigh.

He stretched awkwardly, his leg buckling uncomfortably under his weight. At some point he had drifted off, leaning back against the window frame, one leg braced against the shingle and the other hanging down into the room. Cole had indeed completely wasted his money.

He stared out to sea over the rooftops, thatch and shingle alike shining as bright as spun gold in the sunrise. It was another beautiful clear day, without a hint of a blemish. Castiel took in the colours and the distant sounds of sea and port without the usual surge of pleasure he took in the beauty of the world.


	15. Interlude Seven

**The Admiralty, London, some years earlier**

 

He stood, feet hip width apart, hands clasped respectfully behind his back and gave a little bow. Emotionless ice blue eyes tracing the line of the join in the marble floor. Their lordships sat on plump velvet chairs. His own seat was a far more humble, but no less elegantly carved wainscot oak chair. He suspected his father’s influence in the panel selection of the admiralty courtroom. The honourable Sir Malcolm Brown could play puppet master with strings other men could not even envisage much less pull.

It was not entirely his fault the ship had foundered. The Captain bore his share of the blame for insisting they keep going when the weather was clear against them. But deserting the helm to save his own skin was enough to see him hang. One moment of weakness…

There was only one other witness to the events of that bleak, fear-filled night. Winchester, the very name made his lip curl, always there, throughout his career, promoted and sponsored by Singer. Where had he come from? Who were his parents? Dammit, he hadn’t even been to a good school. And yet at every turn there he was: Admired and respected, and so goddamned self-righteous.

Whether he had stayed at the wheel or not was of little consequence. After all, for all his posturing afterward, Winchester had not managed to save the ship when he raced to reach the free spinning wheel and steer them away from the rocks that had ripped her hull from bow to stern, sinking her in such short order that the crew had not even made the lifeboats. He rubbed his chin, the memory of the blow that had sent him sprawling on his back across the deck of the ship that had rescued them both. Winchester glowering at him from under brows darker than the storm that lashed about them.

He glanced at him across the cool dusty atmosphere of the courtroom. This was the first time he had seen him since they had made shore, stood in this dry stone walled room so far removed from the reality of life at sea. Their eyes met briefly and Winchester’s eyes clouded with that same simmering look of hatred and disdain they had held as they parted company. As their lordships pronounced their verdict, his eyes slid away and he turned back towards the bench. Both of them acquitted of any wrongdoing. Without anyone else to back his evidence, it seemed Winchester had seen the sense of towing the line.

“The loss of life is most regrettable,” his Lordship was saying. “But it is clear that there was nothing that could be done to save the vessel once the storm descended. You are both now without crew or ship. Winchester…”

“Yes your Lordship,” Winchester acknowledged.

“Captain Bishop had already written a letter of recommendation for your promotion to Captain. It is a little unusual for a man not to work his way through the ranks a little more steadily, but it seems he rated you most highly, and should this unfortunate event not have occured you would already by now be in a command position. I see no reason, in light of your conduct and his commendations not to recognise his request and as fortune would have it, we have just the opportunity. You will make your way to Plymouth where a newly fitted vessel awaits a good man to build her crew.”

“Thank you, sir.” Winchester’s voice mingled surprise and sadness in equal measure. Damned fool was mourning Bishop even now.  

“As for you, Brown. Captain Adler has need of a First Mate aboard The Redoubtable and I feel his guidance would further develop you for command yourself. I am sure you will be a great success.”

He managed a thank you and with that they were both dismissed. Second son of a naval family, it was scarcely right for this jumped up peasant to achieve command first. He suppressed his resentment, covering it with the sycophancy to his superiors that had carried him through school and his career thus far. He waited until they were outside, but still had an audience of senior officers before he chose to ‘congratulate’ his former colleague.

“Winchester.” He held out a hand. “It must be deeply satisfying to have your fortune made. All the better to secure the future of your family. How proud they will be for you to have thus thwarted your humble status…”

The look he received was appraising. “Alastair,” Winchester shook the outstretched hand, his grip pincering the smaller bones of Alastair’s hand as he squeezed and pulled him closer, the better to slap his free arm to his shoulder. Whether the apparently friendly gesture fooled anyone else was beyond him, but the growling voice low and only for Alastair’s ears left him in no doubt where they stood. “Let us never pretend again that whatever their Lordships may present in their papers, _we_ don’t know the truth of that dreadful night. Many good men died that night, Brown. Pray our paths never cross again, lest you join them.”

\---

And they had not. He had heard tell of the man’s progress at times, saw his name mentioned in despatches. His career a steady string of advances and successes, until he decided to take his pension. And Alastair had felt the first crawl of fear. Would Winchester still hold his tongue when he was no longer a part of naval discipline? His determination to leave the man a message had culminated in the harshest of warnings. He had not expected her to die, she was too spirited, fought back. The crack of her skull against the flagstones had a finality he had not anticipated. He had brazened it out in front of his associates. Silenced them both in short order, of course. Loose lips sink ships and end promising naval careers.  For many years he had assumed that whatever Winchester might suspect there was nothing to link him to that distant little farmstead.

It was only after the death of their father, when Edward was clearing his papers that they discovered just how much effort had been made to silence Winchester on the subject of his wife’s death. His father using his influence to threaten his pension, thus using his family as hostages of fortune. A necessary cruelty, because far from only having suspicions about the death of his wife. John Winchester had a witness.

He wrote to his brother immediately and the reply had heartened him. Edward thought Alastair a bloody fool for letting his enmity get so out of hand, but Edward would take care of it.


	16. Love is the Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we learn more about the Winchesters and their family.

**The Love of a Father**

 

“Your father never got over it as you know. But he did try. Even made a start at running the farm. He found it so hard, coping without her. He loved your mother so deeply, I’m surprised it didn’t break him right away, but when no-one was brought to justice… it was just too much...” Bobby shook his head sadly as he poked at the fire with a small stick. Jo and Ash were already asleep. Jo in the back of the wagon and Ash on his bedroll up against the wheels.

Sam felt the familiar surge of resentment, as he stared into the licking flames. “Much easier to drink himself into a stupor every night and leave Dean to take care of the farm and me…Just because he never knew who killed her! We should have been enough of a reason to keep going… but no he has to throw it all in and go back to sea and abandon us…because it was too much and we weren’t enough! Just like I’m not enough, now,” He wiped furiously at a tear that made it past his lashes and ran down his cheek, the pain of rejection twisting like a knife.

“No, son. You really don’t understand, you were enough. Always. You were the reason your father went to sea, not because you weren’t enough, but because you were everything. Both of you were everything he had in the world.” Bobby dropped the stick and twisted to grip his arm. “It’s not your fault. Not Dean’s. Not even really John’s, although he could have done things differently. This is the bit you’ve never been told. The bit your father swore me to keep secret. May he forgive me, but I think you are old enough to know and you need to understand. Your father did know who... He knew exactly who did those terrible things to your mother, but the Navy wouldn’t give them up. And when your father threatened to go higher, they told him they would take his pension. Leave you all destitute.”

“So he backed off, for you and your brother. It weighed heavy and maybe he did find too much comfort in the bottle, but he loved you both. He loved you both so much he was going to let it go and live out his life raising you boys.”

“So why didn’t he?” Sam was finding this far to hard to believe. He remembered his father as an angry growling presence, smelling of hard liquor and stale tobacco, who abandoned them and died of a tropical fever miles away from home. It did not square with the picture Bobby was painting.

\---

No-one it seemed was willing to mention the fact that the Captain had relinquished control of the helm to Benny and Garth and was spending his days, shirtless, working at the ropes and sails, lifting beams and carrying goods back and forth, until his hands blistered, eating with the crew if he ate at all and falling exhausted into his bunk each night.

Benny watched his self-destructive streak from a distance, soothing the disquiet with well-placed words and careful management, explaining it as a need to get the repairs finished, so they could all get back to business as soon as possible and get Bobby back aboard.

And the repairs were indeed going well, but they would need to rest at anchor while the jib boom was mounted back on the mast. It could be managed at sea with a gentle motion, but the calendar was in storm season, tipping headlong towards the Fall: They had already had three days of an erratic swell. The ocean calm enough only for short spells, the pitch and yaw way too strong to risk carrying out the heaviest parts of the repair.

Dean had retreated into manual labour but showed no signs of drinking anymore much to Benny’s relief. Still, he barely spoke and avoided all discussion, so Benny was none the wiser to his reasons for leaving Castiel behind. He was deeply uneasy watching his friend. He was clearly hurting. Neither Tran nor Garth had seen or heard anything either directly or indirectly from amongst the crew to explain why the Captain had suddenly ordered them to sail from port, standing on his quarterdeck only as long as it took them to clear the harbour and disappearing into his cabin immediately afterward.

Benny sighed. He could have sworn they were… well, it scarce mattered now, whatever it was, something had shattered it. Milton was resourceful and capable, enough, even without money or connections, he would be OK. He would find some way to avoid boarding the Dreadnought and get himself safely back to Port Royal. There was nothing Benny could do to help Castiel, so he focused on Dean. He was fairly sure this had something to with Brown, maybe this was Dean’s way of protecting Castiel, it was about the only thing that made sense.

\---

“I knew Alastair Brown as a young man. He joined my ship as a young officer about the same time as another wet behind the ears recruit. Only John Winchester was no officer, not to start with. Just a boy with no family and the need of a career. Your father was an exceptional sailor. He showed Brown up for the cruel, useless braggart he was more than once. Not long after I left the Navy and settled in Plymouth, there was some scandal, a ship was lost, a lot of men died. Your father managed to save himself, just barely, he was nearly lost himself trying to save a handful of the crew, by sailing too close to the sinking ship in a lifeboat. It capsized as the ship went down and damn near took him with it, he was only saved by the arrival of another ship. Alastair was at the root of it. John knew, but it was his word against Brown’s and Brown had connections. They were both ‘promoted.’ Sent their separate ways. Your father as Captain of his own ship and Brown as second in command to a man called Adler.”

“That’s the man they sent into Port Royal naked…the Captain who… who ordered Dean be…” Sam’s brows bunched as he made the connections. He raised his head and stared at Bobby. “Dean didn’t kill him, so why does he have to kill Alastair?”

The light from the fire flickered on Bobby’s face and he looked as though he too might actually drift into tears. “My poor boys… It was Alastair Brown and two of his men who went to your farm, Sam. They never knew at the time that Dean was there when they killed Mary. Had no idea he was a witness to what they did, but once they found out, one of those bastards came back to make sure he could never be identified. Your father killed him, he had no choice. I helped him bury the man and we found a letter when we stripped him of his credentials. A letter encouraging him to find and kill ‘the brat’, to leave no evidence of their crime. It was Alastair Brown’s brother that your father killed that night and that’s why he had to go back to sea, to track Alastair himself down and kill him, too, because he knew none of you would be safe until he had.”

Sam shook his head. His whole worldview had just been thrown into chaos. “You both let me hate him, all this time and… why would you do that? Why does Dean have to shoulder every burden, like some goddamned martyr?”

Ash stirred, snorting and shuffling in his bedroll. “Hush now.” Bobby chided him. “When Dean and I both first promised to keep all this from you, you were still very much a child. And your brother, he promised John, he would always protect you and keep you safe. So think on… what would you have done in his place? How could he have told you? And no-one ‘let’ you hate your father, Sam. You did that despite everything your brother tried to tell you about what kind of a man he was.”

Sam blinked at the rebuke. It was true. Dean was forever defending their father, telling him tales of the man that didn’t fit with Sam’s memories. “But the life of a pirate, just so he can chase after… this man, he’s not tried to come after us again… why not just let it go?”

“Think, Sam, my boy. Why do you think you go by Harvelle and not Winchester? The man had connections, influence. Dean gave up the farm and came to me because he thought I could hide you both…and he was wrong. Brown did come for you again, he took Dean thinking he was my son and he could force me into disclosing you. I couldn’t tell him the truth. I told him Dean was just my serving boy, in the hopes he would just let him go, but the bastard pressed him instead. That’s how come your brother ended up on that Navy ship, and how come we ended up here, because we followed the ship to try and get your brother back.”

\---

Dean did not even stop at his tasks when he heard the call to drop anchor, just continued with the saw, back and forth, trimming the planking to the angles to fix the foredeck behind the Impala’s solid head. The sun had turned his skin the colour of burnished bronze so that the criss-cross of scars stood prouder than ever. Garth was striking the bell for the noon meal. Everyone else was laying down their tools and heading below decks.

Dean stood tall, his back and shoulders aching from days of punishing activity. He felt the strain in his muscles and his neck cracked as he rolled it. He grabbed at an oilskin and drank deeply, pouring a good half of the water over his hair. Gasping at the coolness of it.

He had not noticed at first where Benny had chosen to drop anchor, but as he glanced across the bay towards an innocuous spit of sand, with a scrubby little patch of vegetation, shimmering hazily a few hundred yards away, he pushed his own fist into his forehead. Suddenly, his eyes and nose were stinging with tears. He could tell himself it was the sweat-laden water from his hair that made them run, hell he could tell himself anything he liked. It wouldn’t make it true. Everything in this goddamned world was conspiring to remind him of what... _who_ … he was trying to forget. He threw the oilskin across the deck, but it was not enough to dispel his frustration at himself. So he grabbed a peen hammer and swung it with all his might, making contact with the solid carved oak figurehead of the jumping buck. But salt seasoned, well-aged oak is hard as rock and the hammer stave broke, the metal head careening away into the water somewhere off to the side with a huge glooping splash. So he seized the next nearest tool and flung his arm back ready to strike again.

Something snagged his arm and a shadow fell across his patch of deck. He growled angrily, but the hand gripping his arm did not relinquish its hold until he dropped the chisel. He snatched himself free and, with a glare that stopped even Benny in his tracks, strode back towards his cabin.

 

 

**A Mother's Love**

 

JoBeth was completely overwhelmed by the hug her mother gave her. She had been expecting a hiding, not this. This was much, much worse. She heard the hitch in her mother’s breathing as she bit back a sob and it was too much.

She started to cry. Her mother pushed her away, cupping her cheeks, using her thumbs to wipe away the tears. “Enough of that,” she said softly and kissed her daughter’s forehead, “Get yourself off to bed. It’s late.”

Sam swallowed, not sure whether his greeting would be quite the same, but Ellen was too relieved to have them both back safe for anger. She nodded her head in the direction of the stairs and Sam all but scuttled while the going was good.

“Don’t think either of you is out of the woods,” she called up the stairs after them. “I have a lovely list of chores for you both, starting with whitewashing the privies…”

\---

_The shade of the apple tree casts long shadows in the evening sun. The canopy shifts in the breeze, a patchwork of brilliant pastel greens and yellows, bright and jewel-like as the haloes in the sainted windows of the church. There’s a nip in the air and the softest lullaby carries on it luring him from the sweet bed of moss and grass to his own, indoors. It’s Sammy’s song, but she will sing him his own song soon after… he grips the little carving of a boat he’s whittling for Pa with the little mother of pearl handled knife...a gift from the last leave, he is never without it..._

_...the sound of voices wakes him… over loud and excited as men get when they smell of sour apples and bitter hops…dark and cold as he creeps from his bed… smooth polished wood of the floorboards under quiet feet..._

_...a flickering fire and faces, one looming large over Ma, creepy and harsh with ‘a message for John he would leave with her’...she sees him then, stares at him through the gaps in the bannister rails, a silent appeal, not for help, she mouths the word when she’s sure she can… Hide._

_...Sammy’s warm and solid...swaddled tight in blue and red patchwork…under the bed with the dust, splinters biting his knees as he pushes him deep into the gap...sleeping as only Sam can sleep… waking for nothing..._

_… Hide, Ma wanted him to hide...but he can’t hear the voices anymore and yet … the whittling knife feels right in his hand, the mother of pearl handle familiar and solid…he wants to be Ma’s good boy… but she hasn’t come up the stairs..._

_...harsh whispers…’...what have we done…only supposed to be a warning… why did you hit her so hard?…’ he sees them then… all three of them at the door... two faces drawn in shock and panic as the firelight flickered over their features…_

_...the third just laughs… laughs and uses his mother’s nightdress to wipe the blood from his hands, before he throws it onto her face and pulls the farmhouse door shut behind them…_

_...it bangs tight… and then he is in the kitchen… the kitchen chair weighs heavy, clunk, clunk, clunk, the legs ride over the grooves of the flagstones… it’s heavy and each clunk thumps up through his elbows and shoulders...cold strikes up through his bare feet...then the relative warmth of the wooden seat...heavy bolt punishing his fingers as he slides it home…_

_...he fetches her washcloth, cleans the mess from her face and brushes her hair…he knew... and sings their song…he did know... fetches her a blanket to keep her warm until morning...it was all a lie...Ma will wake up then…but if he was good... and smile…and looked after her well...he will fetch eggs from the coop, just like he always does; Ma’s good boy...then it wouldn’t be true...buttery scrambled fluff and the scrape of his bowl as they share cuddles at the breakfast table...he would not let it be true..._

\---

He was sweating and trembling when he woke, face wet with tears. He had not dreamt of that night in years, could still recall every detail of how it felt and sounded. The smell of blood and taste of his own tears.

He did not sleep again, despite the ache of fatigue in his bones. Gradually the cabin lightened as the dawn broke outside. He stared at the dark blue velvet swags, carefully replaced over his bed. He had lain under those drapes, sleeping soundly, pressed against a solid warm thigh. He would have sworn on his brother’s life that the care the Lieutenant had taken of Bobby was genuine. Maybe it was just the actions of a guilty conscience.

He turned, rolled onto his side and stared numbly at the seating bench which doubled as a spare bunk when needed. A fine white linen shirt was hanging over the back of it. He had not noticed it when he came in here to sleep. It was luminous in the half-light. Lord knows how they managed to get it so white. It undoubtedly involved the use of all that stored urine, but he preferred not to think on it.

He had wiped apple juice on that shirt. Enjoyed playfully tormenting the man to whom it belonged… his captive. Listened to the tell-tale hitch in his breathing. He’d made it happen again… several times...never once not enjoying the sound. He squinted at the shirt accusingly. In the morning he would throw it overboard.

\---

“Enough, brother, you need to take a break.”

He glanced up briefly at Benny, before stubbornly continuing to strike at the particularly resistant wooden stave, which was determined not to slide home. “Captain. Take a break.”

He looked about him quickly, the crew were all down near the quarterdeck where one of the cooks was dishing out whatever delicacy he had made for their evening meal. He sniffed the air. A stew, was there ever any other option? He turned back to the stave peg.

He hit it again and the blasted thing split, splintering pieces across the deck, the follow through on the heavy hammer ringing off the pulley with a clanging ring like a bell strike. He glared at it, his hands loosing their grip on the hammer, even as the vibration numbed his fingers and made his elbows tickle.

“Enough, Dean,” Benny said, keeping his voice low to avoid being heard. “Don’t make me carry you off this deck, in front of your crew. You need to eat, drink and rest. They’re loyal to a fault, but you’re scaring them all with this. Hell, you’re scaring me.”

He glared at Benny.

“If you keep going, it will be too late to get them back.”  

Dean turned without speaking leaving the hammer where it had fallen. No-one spoke to him as he strode past them, pulling the door to his quarters shut behind him.

He slumped onto the bench seat. His anger beginning to subside, leaving in its place only the empty gnawing regret he was working himself so hard to suppress. He leaned back and pressed a cheek to the soft white linen of the shirt as his eyes slid shut.

 

**Tough Love**

 

The storm that rattled the doors and windows of the Four Winds Inn had set in just after sunset. Jo and Sam were both so deeply impregnated with the stench of a day spent scrubbing out stables and pigsties that by the time they themselves had been scrubbed clean in the old tin bath in front of a roaring fire they were both thoroughly exhausted. Jo had nearly landed face first in her evening meal and Sam was faring little better.

Ash watched amused as they trailed up the stairs. For a week now Ellen had set a punishing schedule of every unpleasant, tough or downright filthy job she could think of. “Might have been kinder just to give ‘em both a good whupping,” he smirked.

“Really.” Ellen’s voice held a note of warning that had him rapidly wiping his face of all hints of amusement. “Might be best for you to head on up too Ash. Lest I remember I need three to dig out a new cesspit tomorrow.” She didn’t look at him though, she had eyes enough only for Bobby. He was, she knew, made of tough stuff and he had recovered physically in the intervening week. But as the howl of the wind picked up, he was doing his best to look unaffected and still the drink in his tankard rippled with the tiny tremors in his hands.

Ash, deciding he did not want to find out whether or not Ellen was jesting, had just placed a first foot on the bottom stair tread when there was a hammering at the door. Bobby definitely flinched and Ellen hesitated, torn between the urge to offer him comfort and the worry he would reject it. So it was Ash who moved to unbar and open the door to reveal a bedraggled man, relieved and wide-eyed with the rain dripping from his nose even as the storm swirled about him and followed him the first few feet into the warmth and light of the Inn.

\---

While Ash stabled, fed and watered the man’s equally bedraggled horse, rubbing it down with handfuls of straw as it stood slipshod in the stall, Ellen poured a tankard of ale and ladled a generous helping of stew into a bowl. The man’s clothes steamed lightly as he crouched close to the fire. He had introduced himself as Aaron Bass, a courier with the postal service.

“I thought I was going to lose the trail,” the young man’s teeth were chattering slightly and he puzzled as Bobby took his ale and plunged the hot poker into it, the smell of caramelising hops bursting from the froth of bubbles and steam that erupted over the pewter.

“Warm you from within.” Bobby’s voice was even more gruff than usual, but the arrival of the visitor seemed to have pulled him out of his own thoughts. Ellen smiled at him fondly. Give him a foundling to care for…

“We don’t often get mail carriers down this way, they tend to stay inland and use the top trail.” Ellen said pleasantly, setting the stew in front of him. He pounced on it greedily.

Bass tipped the bowl to her in salute and through a mouthful of bread and gravy continued, “...top trail is impassable.” He swallowed and wiped his mouth on his arm, before slurping a good mouthful of his hot toddy. “Last storm caused a landslide. Most of the traffic is going even further inland. But the last carrier fell outside Orlean and busted his leg, so when I arrived I volunteered to double back here before I carry on to Port Solace with the naval dispatches. I figured it would only take me a day, but I weren’t accounting for this.” On cue, the storm crashed in from outside as Ash came back through the main door, shaking the rain from his shaggy mane of hair and rebarring the heavy oak door.

“Double back to where?” Bobby asked confused about where the young man was heading. They were certainly in totally the wrong direction from Orlean if he intended to go to Port Solace. “Did you mean to work your way South along the coast from here? Where are you planning to go?”

Here,” the courier looked at him in surprise, “I have mail to deliver here. That is why I came this way, to deliver a letter addressed for a M. Robin des Bois, c/o The Keeper of the Four Winds Inn.”

“Robin des Bois?” Bobby puzzled his brow furrowing. Behind him, he heard Ash chuckle.

The courier nodded towards his satchel. “I only have to deliver it to the keeper. It’s between him and Monsieur des Bois whether it ever reaches his hand. Perhaps he is intended to travel this way.”

Bobby opened his mouth to speak, but uncharacteristically Ash spoke over him. “Mistress Harvelle here is the keeper of this fine establishment, so I’m sure she will hold the letter for ‘Monsieur des Bois’.” He winked at Ellen and Bobby over the young man’s head. “Let me take your coat and satchel. Soon as you’ve had your fill, I’ll show you to a bed for the night. Little point risking your neck for a few naval documents. Better to be setting off in good light with a fresh horse and dry clothes.”


	17. Interlude Eight

Bass, knowing his business all too well, locked the door to his room. They seemed friendly enough, but he had learned to trust no-one. He hung his precious satchel of correspondence over the bedpost and settled back onto the comfortable bed. A fire crackled in the hearth, its golden comfort dancing over the walls and furniture, lulled by the white noise of the rain on the shutters he fell into a deep exhausted sleep.

It was birdsong that woke him in the morning. He opened the shutters to another clear blue day and wondered, not for the first time in his life, at the propensity of the local weather for the speed of its mood changes.

His satchel was still hung on the bedpost where he had left it. He dressed quickly and unlocked his door, met with the smell of breakfast, he took his satchel and followed his nose down the stairs.

\---

Ash, knowing his business equally as well as his victim, had waited until the opiate he had stirred into the messenger’s drink had taken full effect and then picked the locks. He took the naval dispatches, one by one carefully removing the seals and reading them. Most were dull, the first few in such a badly written hand that it had taken all three of them to decipher the scrawl. The later dated documents were far more legible, and ultimately, far more illuminating. There was a also a large number of wanted posters carrying the rough woodblock print of Dean's face, all looped on a large knot of twine. Ash chuckled as he read the note attached to them. It appeared that Dean's wanted posters had a tendency to disappear from notice boards, no doubt secreted away in bedchambers, notebooks, and diaries of many a household. 

Using a fresh daub of wax under the official seals, he carefully resealed the orders and secret parchments, not letting a single one show signs of tampering and then in the safety of his own little room in the attic, Ash stoked his fire, watching the flames lick around the remnants of the one set of documents he had not returned to the satchel before carefully relocking the door. Burning them would merely delay word spreading, buy them some time perhaps. It was impossible to know how far the orders had reached, whether other dispatches had been delivered to other ports or towns. The only thing that was absolutely clear from the orders conveyed in the burning documents was that the arrest warrant for one Lieutenant Castiel James Milton signalled the end of his naval career.


	18. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we and our heroes learn that the truth does not always set you free.

**The Painful Truth**

 

Sam and Jo had just finished piling the Inns’ few carpets into the corner of the bar when Dean arrived. Ellen had finally reached the outer edges of her anger with them. The mild task of beating carpets signaling the fact their redemption was at hand.

Dean looked thinner, tired, dark-eyed. Bobby had known him man and boy and he could not recall ever seeing him look so hollow.

“You look tired, boy.” He mumbled, quiet to ensure only Dean heard him. Dean shrugged and the state of his hands snagged Bobby’s attention. Blistered and bruised. What had he done that he felt the need to punish himself so? Bobby hadn’t even noticed he was shaking his own head until Ellen caught his eye, looking quizzically at him over Dean’s shoulder.

She nodded behind him, and Bobby turned. Benny Lafitte’s bulky frame was ducking through the door of the Inn. If Benny was here, that meant, contrary to their speculation on the subject, that Milton was probably alone in Port Solace and that made things far more complicated… and altogether more dangerous.

Ellen was suddenly all bustle. Scattering the others in all directions to chores and preparations for their meal that would send them to the outbuildings or the well, all a good distance and out of earshot of the bar. She made her own excuses and headed out back to ‘check the cook pot.’

Bobby grinned, despite his worries. His future wife was as subtle as a brick.

The three men stood alone in the bar. The fire, as ever, lending a hissing, crackling soundtrack to serious discussions.

\---

The door had barely closed behind Ellen when Bobby exclaimed. “What damn fool plans have you three got cooked up?”

“Plans?” Benny scoffed. “He’s spoken no more than a dozen words to anyone since we left port, offers no explanations, just works himself into a stupor and ignores us all.”

Dean glared at Benny as a heavy hand settled on his shoulder, “Tell me, you haven’t let him go off on some foolhardy mission aboard that ship, Son.” Bobby’s voice sounded doubtful, exactly as if he were trying to unpick a puzzle that made no sense. “Tell me, Dean. What happened? Why isn’t he with you? I thought the problem would be convincing him to leave your side.” His grip flexed, and he shook Dean’s shoulder gently. “Is that what this is? Did you think the only way you could make him go was to force him into it? To abandon him, for his own sake?”  Bobby was never normally this direct. He always let Dean come to speaking his mind in his own time if he ever did.

He didn’t know where to start. Days of working himself to exhaustion hadn’t cleared the tumbled, aching confusion in his mind. He hated himself. More than he could bear. Cas had nearly killed Bobby and still… he loved him.

“Dean? Son? Did you even hear me, boy? Where is the lieutenant?”

“I left him behind.”

“We know that, you damned fool. What I want to know is why? Tell me you haven’t let him go to gather intelligence aboard that ship!”

Dean stared at Bobby, his eyes widening. How did Bobby know that he had left Cas in Solace? They had only just arrived. Bobby was pushing a letter towards him. “I had to hide it from Ash overnight. He and Ellen were all for opening it, but…it’s addressed to you and one night would scarce make a difference. It has to be from the Lieutenant. Who else but he would be sending letters coded to ‘Robin Hood’ in French?”

Dean stared at the neat curling script. M. Robin de Bois, c/o …

“The messenger left this morning, we burnt the dispatches with the arrest warrant and charges due for Solace and the other northern ports to buy us some time while we waited for you, but…”

Arrest warrant?! Dean’s thoughts were galloping away from him, he didn’t even realise he had vocalised his surprise until Bobby gripped his arm and shook it slightly.

“You didn’t hear me, did you. They think he’s a deserter, Dean. Some cock and bull story about him trying to overthrow her Captain and sabotage the Swallow…They’ve issued an arrest warrant and raised charges. If they catch him, he’ll face the gallows.”

Dean stood in the firelight, cupping the back of his neck with his hand. He stared past the letter in his hand at the toes of his boots, let his eyes track the cracks and grooves of the floorboards. The gallows.

“I have to get back to that port,” Benny was saying. “Warn him, or… Christ, if he boards the Dreadnought and Alastair… that man prides himself on saving the Navy the cost of trials…”

“He nearly killed you.” Dean’s voice was so small and quiet, that Benny barely heard it.

His knuckles were white he was gripping his own neck with such force. Benny stared at Bobby. The two of them coming to the same realisation at the same moment from different sets of clues. The french knots, Benny thought.

“You nearly died, Bobby. He could have killed you. He tied you to that helm so tight you couldn’t free yourself”

Bobby seemed to swell. “You damned idjut. I told him to. I knew he didn’t want to, but I made him do it tight enough that I couldn’t weaken and come away. It was the only way to save us all.” His voice thundered in the dark room with enough force to shake dust loose. “I knew he was the only one on board with the courage and good sense to do it.”

Dean made a small noise, somewhere between a whine and a sob and Bobby was dragging him into a hug. Dean resisted for the briefest of moments before his shoulders sagged and he dropped down. Bobby pushed him back, cupping his face with his hands, he kissed his cheek and wiped the tear tracks with calloused old thumbs. “Foolish child for all your adult years. The only thing that boy did that was against my wishes was to risk his neck coming back for me and the only thing I could possibly be mad with him for was that he let you go with him!”

 

**The Adventure of M. De Bois**

 

The parchment curved softly in his hand, it’s texture rough against the raw skin of his fingers, in those places where the blisters had worn away. He blinked the blur from his eyes and focused on the deep purple of the ink. The neat cursive script he had watched appear on nearly all his charts over the past few weeks almost as familiar now as his own hand.

Forgive me for using M. De Bois, as my messenger, but I have much to impart and he seemed the most obvious man for the duty, as I know him to be my true and faithful friend.

After we parted ways, I was fortunate enough to meet another old friend in the harbour. He immediately offered me lodgings and has delayed his passage home as he wishes to speak with you again before he takes his leave for good. He carries news too personal to submit in writing.

I have a little money left from my father’s fortune and intend to use it to buy out my commission, for which purpose I shall return briefly to Port Royal. By good fortune, a naval ship arrived in port this morning.

She has missed the worst of the storm, but her refit was not as smooth as might have been and she will be delayed here at least five days to make such alterations and repairs as to make her worthy of the attention she is bound to receive on her arrival before the Commodore. Her Captain has requested I join him aboard to assist in overseeing the works in return for safe passage. She is an exceptional vessel. Her layout not at all usual and she is well-equipped for her purpose. Her crew are as well disciplined as any I have ever come across.

It is the Captain’s intention to set sail in eight days so that our arrival in Port Royal coincides with the Feast of the Holy Cross.

And so I take my leave of you but would urge you to reconnect with our mutual friend, he and I have conversed much and I know he desperately wishes to have the same opportunity with you.

Votre ami dévoué

C

 

Dean passed the letter to Benny, clenching his fingers into a fist to disguise the slight shake. He dared not look either he or Bobby in the face. Although they could not be more disappointed nor angry with him than he was with himself. Cas was in danger, and it was all his fault. He stared at the dark shell of a small beetle as it moved along a groove in the flagstones.

“Dammit. He means to garner as much information as he can and use that man Cole as his messenger,” Benny murmured. “We have to get him off that ship before it sails down the coast. If he ends up in Port Royal…”

The beetle reached a corner. It paused, before following the joint at a right angle to its former path. The iridescent quality of its shell scattering the light as it crossed a beam of the dying sunlight.

“We have the night to plan,” Bobby said calmly. “Go fetch the others, we’ll eat and then set ourselves down with Ash. He’s a first-class mind for all and any kind of deception, and he knows Solace better than any man alive. We may have need of his contacts.”

Dean flexed his fingers into his own neck. The sweat on his skin was stinging in the wounds on his hands. The beetle continued its steady progress, completely unaffected as Benny’s shadow fell across the flagstones and passed over it. Dean closed his eyes and swallowed.

“Sit down, son,” Bobby said softly. Dean did not move. He re-opened his eyes slowly. The beetle had stopped. It's antenna testing the air.

“Dean!” Bobby’s gruff voice was more insistent and his fingers closed around Dean’s wrist. “I have a confession of my own.” he admitted, “And you’re not going to like it.”

\---

Cas worked diligently to supervise the crew and the local craftsman at their work. The crew were a hard, wary bunch, but then if he served under Brown for long, he was quite certain, he too would be permanently on edge. The man was odious. There was something mesmerising about his mannerisms, he oozed danger even when apparently calm. He reminded Cas of the dancing cobra he had seen as a child in the marketplace at Tortuga one afternoon.

His original intention had been to make himself known and to garner what information he could about the ship and its layout, before making his way back to the lodgings he shared with Cole. Instead, he found himself on that first evening being informed that Brown had ‘taken the liberty of providing him with a berth’.

“So fortuitous that we find ourselves thus,” Alastair intoned, “we are a ship without a lieutenant and you are a lieutenant without a ship. My own officer took his leave of us on our first stopover. Most unfortunate. But not everyone is cut for the Navy.”

Cas smiled politely and accepted as he had no reason to refuse and Brown outranked him. It was clear from the uncomfortable shift of the men around them that the previous Lieutenant’s ‘leave-taking’ was a much more complex story, but Cas doubted the information would come easy. It was an irritation, but a mixed blessing. He may learn far more this way, perhaps even gain allies, but it would make it much harder to impart what he learned to Cole if he was not retiring to his lodgings. Still, he was not technically assigned to Brown. He had some liberty to enter the town. He would just have to be careful he wasn’t followed. He could not risk giving Cole away.

\---

Bobby had broken his oath. Gone back on his word. Told Sam everything.

“It doesn’t matter.” His own words surprised him. But it really didn’t. “He deserves to know the truth. He’s old enough now and he should know before… before it all ends.” Dean raised his head and scanned Bobby’s battered face. Relief flared briefly, but there was little time to say anything more before Ellen and Jo re-entered the bar and they were occupied with setting bowls and baskets of bread on the table as the others reappeared from their errands to eat.

\---

The first few stray tendrils of dawn light were creeping through the shutters, casting witches fingers across the counterpane as Benny left his room at the Inn and made his way along the narrow landing. He had slept surprisingly soundly and he could hear Bobby’s guttural snoring from the bedchamber that overlooked the front of the Inn.

He was pretty certain that Dean would be awake. They had few scarce minutes to speak privately since they had arrived here. He had been surprisingly quiet as they strategised the night before but smiled briefly when Benny offered to carry a letter or message back to the Lieutenant for him. He knocked gently at the door but heard no answer. A vague wisp of suspicion had him trying the door handle before it had even formed as a thought in his mind. It opened and he sighed, staring at the empty bed as he stood in the doorway of what should have been Dean’s bedchamber.

With the perfect clarity that always comes after the fact, he realised now, what should have been self-evident the evening before: Dean had acquiesced way too easily. Benny had known there was no question that he wanted to go straight to Port Solace. He had seen it the moment Dean had finally lifted his head from his focus on his tankard. A green fire of resolve hardening through the glisten of tears in eyes that had been dull and emotionless for days. Despite the situation, it had been a relief to see him back.

Their plan was simple and effective. Benny was a navy man. He would go to Solace with Ash as his guide. If they had been successful in delaying the orders and they had not reached the Dreadnought, he would arouse no suspicion. If somehow the message had got through, he would be greeted as a ‘hero’ and could gain access to the Lieutenant anyways.

They would eat, rest the night. They had four days until the Dreadnought was intended to sail so he and Ash would set off at dawn. They would meet with Cole, Benny would go aboard the Dreadnought and retrieve the Lieutenant. Bobby and Dean would talk to the crew, set those who wished it ashore and then set an intercept course and lie in wait at the mouth of the St. Lucie. If the news was good, all three men would make their way to meet them there. If, heavens forbid, Castiel was in custody, Benny would stay aboard the Dreadnought, Ash would carry the message alone and it would become a rescue mission.

It was a good plan.

It had only one flaw.

It had been based on the presumption that Dean Winchester was prepared to follow it.

 

**Even a Good Man May Have Need of Lies**

Cas itched uncomfortably at the collar of his borrowed uniform. Alastair had provided it that first night as if he was bestowing some great favour but Cas missed the soft comfort of his tunic and breeches and he glanced at the bolster he had stuffed them into with something bordering on longing. The uniform felt as restrictive and alien to him now as the rank and organisation it represented.

Alastair questioned him thoroughly about the circumstance which led to him being without uniform during the dinner given up as a further ‘honour’. Cas had known there was little point in evasion, he had already sent his report to Port Royal after all.

“Fortunate for you,” he became quickly used to the tone of Alastair’s mocking voice. The man’s nasal drawl seemed at all times to imply that there were at least four or five layers of subtext and deception in every utterance of a conversation. It was exhausting. “To have a man like Lafitte at your side.”

Castiel had schooled his features into a mask of indifference and innocence. “Indeed, I could not have escaped without his assistance and I fear he has paid a high price. I have to presume his ploy to feign desertion was uncovered or that they held him responsible for my escape. Either way, I am sure he will make his way back if and when he is able. He is a loyal friend and a good sailor.”

“I knew him…” Alastair had drawled, and Castiel shivered slightly remembering how he had felt his skin crawl at the same pace, “...We were aboard the same ship, albeit only for a twelvemonth.”

“Oh,” Castiel had smiled and let his head cock to one side in open question.

“Yes,” Alastair had continued, “He never mentioned the acquaintance?”

“No. I don’t believe so, but then… fire and gossip are never welcome aboard ship.”

Alastair had merely nodded and re-topped their goblets.

They had continued in the same vein since. Each conversation a dance as they carefully groomed and dissected each other's responses. Alastair was exceptionally interested in the pirate captain that much was clear, despite his pretense at indifference and Castiel could only hope his own agenda was not so obvious.

“There are almost as many rumours about his provenance as there are ships to his tally, but very little is known of his origin. He’s the bastard son of an aristocrat, or a cabin boy made good. I even heard some more fanciful tales that he is the son of a mermaid or a direct descendant of Davy Jones himself.” Alastair’s tone was casual, but he was watching Castiel intently. “Perhaps having seen the real man, up close, as they say, you have more of an insight into the truth.”

Cas had allowed himself to chuckle at the more fanciful notions but answered neutrally. “He seemed a mere man to me, sir. A competent captain, certainly, but I would not like to hazard a guess to his origins or training based on that alone.”

“A competent Captain, eh? I have also heard tell that he may be a mutineer or a deserter” Alastair continued, attempting to obscure his watchful gaze by taking a draught from his goblet of claret. “Would you say he knows how the Navy operates? He certainly seems to know his ships and the ways of the seas... Maybe he was a pressed man, it would certainly explain his determination to humiliate the Navy and relieve the crown of its bounty.” He raised the cup to his lip again, but Castiel had felt his scrutiny upon him even as he dipped his head back to his plate.

“I would not think it so unusual for a pirate Captain to steal nor for that matter to treat the Navy as a sworn enemy. Certainly, he would need to know the business of keeping a vessel safe at sea. After all, surely it is every bit as much their purpose to stay afloat as tis the Navy’s.”Cas had raised his own head sharply and caught a fleeting glimpse of cold calculation and skepticism on Alastair’s face before their eyes met and the sharp features were swiftly refashioned.

He pulled at the irritating collar once more and turning back to his letters, pushed all thoughts of Alastair Brown away. He was writing to Anna but finding it hard to compose his thoughts and concentrate on the task. She would not be surprised that he intended to use part of his father’s legacy to buy himself free of the navy. She had counseled him long and hard against accepting the commission in the first place. She did not believe it would suit him. “Why do you care of duty to the Earl? He scarce gave a fig about Pére, alive or dead.” She had even suggested he take the old man’s money and use it to buy a parcel of land in France, settle near her, and live out his days growing content amidst the grapevines. He chuckled at the memory of her indignance when he told her he could not. He was, despite his stubbornly persistent lingering ‘Frenchness’, a true product of the harsh and determined environment of an English school. The obligation to family name and country beaten into him at every turn.

To join her in France was his most sensible choice of action now, of course. But he could not help but hope, that once this was over, once Dean has exorcised this demon, there was a chance… well… he had to hope. He raised his leg and pulled the flick bladed knife that Winchester had given him from inside his boot. He stared again at the inscription he had discovered upon it. The initials DW and a Latin motto, ‘dum vivimus, vivamus’ elegantly engraved into the upper surface of the tang where it sat between the two sides of the mother of pearl handle.

Dum vivimus, vivamus: While we live, let us live. The knife was a practical thing, but still aesthetically pleasing. It had the patina of the long carried and oft-used. It was a sailor’s tool, so Castiel had initially assumed it to be a merely useful thing passed on without much thought, but once he found that inscription and discovered the true name of its owner. He realised. It had to be important to him so now it symbolised his hope. They had not discussed the return of his own ring, let alone the significance of the knife used to weight it down on his pillow that night, but surely…

A knock at the cabin door brought him quickly back from the tactile exercise of examining the knife. He pushed it hurriedly back into his boot, even as the door opened.

“Captain requests your presence on deck, sir. He has need of you.”

He unrolled his shirt sleeves and donned his frock coat, still buttoning his shirt cuffs as he ducked under the low doorway onto the brilliance of the sun-washed main deck. A number of sailors were already lining one side of the deck distracted from their work by the commotion.

“Ah Milton,” Alastair called somewhere above him. He turned automatically to look towards the command deck. He squinted, his eyes still not adjusted to the brilliance of the daylight after an hour spent in the dark of the cabin. “I was hoping for you to confirm an identification…” the sound of someone falling to the decks had him spinning back in time to see a familiar figure falling from between two sailors and sprawling face first onto the deck. Arms fastened with a length of hemp behind him. “...But it seems it may not be necessary. Alastair descended quickly and strode across the decks. “Pull him up!” he ordered. Clearly dazed Dean still struggled as he was dragged to his feet, his head lolling slightly a nasty gash and bruise marking his forehead and swelling his eye socket.

Castiel could do nothing but watch helplessly as Alastair took his knife and cut the ropes binding Dean’s wrists, ordering his men to hold his arms outstretched as he slit the back of Dean’s tunic from waist to neck ripping it open roughly to expose the criss-cross mess of scars.

He turned back to Castiel with a triumphant sneer. “It seems I have disturbed you unnecessarily, Milton. I now know everything I need to know about this man’s identity.”

 

**Choices**

 

Sam had stood in the bar of the Inn, expecting to have to press his case for being allowed to get involved. He did not want to be left at the Inn. Damn near everyone he cared about most in the world was going to battle the man who had driven a wedge into the heart of his family and he was older now than Dean had been when the Navy pressed him. But Bobby spoke before he had a chance to say anything.

“Ah, Sam. Go git your things, boy.” His well-formed arguments and carefully thought out strategies faded into open-mouthed stillness. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to go with Ash to port?” He hadn’t needed a second asking.

So, wide-eyed and solemn, he stood alongside Bobby and Benny on the quarterdeck of the Impala as the crew prepared to set sail once again across the gulf towards the straits. Bobby had carefully spelled out the future, indeed the potential lack of a future, to every man and woman aboard. Given them all until the midday to decide upon their own part in it. Not a blight for any who chose to take their share and either leave for good or sit out the week at the Inn. Insisted that he only needed a skeleton crew for his task. Predictably, the only ones who did accompany the carts full of valuables were those Bobby insisted go back by virtue of ailments or being family men and even they had to be hard pushed to accept that they should so do. In truth, it was only thought for JoBeth that had prevented Ellen from joining them.

“We scarce need plot our charts,” Benny commented drily, “We’ve traveled this route so often, she may remember it without our intervention at the rudder.”

Bobby gave a grunt of acknowledgment, his one eye tracking the crew as they hauled anchor and with a roll of friendly thunder the massive mainsail unfurled, catching the wind and billowing full and curved, like the smile that Sam could not contain. Even the surge of guilt at finding excitement in such dire circumstances could not diminish the feeling of satisfaction. He jumped slightly as Benny’s huge hand clapped him on the shoulder. “There’s no shame in enjoying her Sam. She’s a thing of beauty and no mistake. Come on, we have a few days, if you’re even half as quick as your brother, we’ll have you a half decent deckhand by the time we reach our rendezvous.”

\---

The deck boards beneath him smelt of pitch and swab, sliding rough against his cheek as he tried to raise his head. Rope bit harsh into his wrists and he tried, unsuccessfully to bring his knees beneath him. Memory returned, fuddled and patchy, the last thing he remembered was his intention to reach the address that Cole had given him… Cole. Had he betrayed him? Sold him out. He doubted it somehow, but they had been waiting for him in the street, had known he would be there and knew who he was. He blinked and tried to clear his head,

“Pull him up.”

His heart seized, adrenaline flooding to fill the cold gap left by fearful recognition of that voice. He fought as his hands were freed and his arms were yanked painfully away from his body, staggering and pony-shaking his head in an effort to clear the buzzing in his ears and the swimming focus of his eyes. The rending tear of his tunic made him want to vomit. He was a boy again, paralysed with terror awaiting the bite of the lash.

“It seems I have disturbed you unnecessarily, Milton. I now know everything I need to know about this man’s identity.”

Milton? ...Castiel. It had to be Cas.. He tried to see over his shoulder, to look past the loathsome Brown and seek out Cas, but he could see nothing but a blur of colours, his vision doubling and fractioning. He had to warn Cas, he had to get away from this man and this ship, before they found out… He had been on his way to find the harbour master’s boy, to pay him to bring a letter to Cas. His reply, his letter, his plea. If they searched him, they would find it tucked into his boot. They would know. He struggled again, but he had no strength and his legs were buckling under him. His vision sparkled as if the world had become the rippled surface of the sea, dancing under the brilliance of the sun and then everything was light and noise until he passed out.


	19. Interlude Nine

**Lyme Regis, some years before**

Alastair Brown stood sniffing the air as he alighted the coach at the Red Lion. The salty decay of the harbour carrying on the prevailing wind. His ride from London had been relatively uneventful. The young couple and a dowager inside the coach with him had been quiet company. He had a mere three days until his next commission, The Redoubtable arrived at the Cobb and no time to waste if he was going to track the Winchester brat. He was coming of age and that might make him dangerous. The news that John Winchester was dead should have been an end of the matter, but Alastair felt the need to finish things. After his brother had vanished and he had heard that Winchester had set back to sea he had spent many months looking over his shoulder. Now he could feel the familiar discomfort and knew he would not be at peace until he knew the boy was dead, too. With Edward missing and presumed dead, his only option was to do it himself.

The discovery that Singer lived in Lyme Regis, mere miles away from that farmstead had cemented his suspicion and given him new determination, the fact that his ship was due to dock in that very port made him believe that even the fates were aligned to his cause. He was certain that Singer would know what had happened to his brother Edward and most probably also knew where the Winchester boy was. 

On his first afternoon, a little careful enquiry with a bosomy and gossipy chambermaid at the Inn had revealed to him that Singer had two boys in his household and whilst at first he had wondered that one of them might be the boy he sought, he found that rumour about town was that the boys were Singer’s own illegitimate sons. And thus he formed and carried out his plan, watching the household and falling easily into step behind the elder boy as he set out on an errand. 

He watched as he moved down the main street, calling at the various merchants, lifting a small purse from his belt and settling accounts. His final call at the smithy where Alastair could overhear him discussing the re-shoeing of a couple of the horses and the repair of a couple of latches. The smith’s daughter apparently sweet on him, if her sudden appearance at the side of the workshop was anything to go by. “Oh, Dean,” she called, waving a small tartlet under his nose. “It’s apple,” she teased. “…your favourite…”

Snatching Dean should have been simplicity itself, but he had surprised Alastair with his awareness and the spirited fight he put up, only once stunned with a blow to the base of his skull did the hard press of a pistol to his ribs finally still him. Alastair dragged him along the darkened alleyway he had carefully scouted for the purpose and bound him tightly, before flinging him into the back of a hired wagon and making for an abandoned croft he had found outside town.

He dragged the still stunned lad into the outhouse and dumped him onto a chair. He used a bucket of cold water from the well to rouse him. “What’s your name, boy?”

All he received in response was a glare of defiance, green eyes regarded him coolly, in the twilight. The crack of the backhander that purpled the high cheekbones echoed roughly of the damp stone walls.

“Your name,” Alastair ordered. 

“Jan Tregeagle,” the boy smirked.

“Dean, Dean, Dean.” Alastair grabbed a handful of the boy’s short hair and yanked his head back, watching the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “Confirm to me what I already know and I will write your father. Once he tells me what I want to know I’ll let you go.”

To his surprise, despite his obvious fear, the boy laughed. “Jokes on you mister. My name is Dean Smith, and I have no father. So whatever you were hoping to gain from this…” He stopped with a gasp as Alastair released his hair and split his lip with a simple jabbing punch.  

The boy spat blood onto the floor and shook his head like a moor pony. The heat of Summer evening had done little to warm the outhouse and now the sun had set the wind blasting up from the coast carried the nip of the open sea. The boy was beginning to shiver from the cold of the well water, but still he remained defiant. “You can hit me all you want,” his words slurred slightly, “No-one will give a damn for my return, beside the fact that someone else will have to muck out the horses tomorrow.”

Two days later, he stood smugly in his place beside his new commander, Captain Adler. The five shillings ‘prest’ money in his pocket small comfort for his wasted attempt to blackmail Singer. The Winchester boy would remain beyond him, but he did have the comfort of knowing he could take his rage out on the defiant young man, currently bound and locked in the hold until they were too far out to sea to make any chance at escape overboard sensible. Assuming he could swim at all.


	20. Resurrection, Retribution and Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we learn more about evil villain of our piece, Mr Alastair Brown and our gallant hero, Mr Dean Smith's time aboard The Redoubtable.

**Resurrection**

 

The Lieutenant looked a little shocked at the sight of his former captor aboard the ship, but then it was hardly surprising. There was something a little soft around the eyes on this one. That indefinable hint of weakness that Alastair prided himself on being able to see in other men.

He was, if he was honest, reeling a little himself. So many things suddenly made sense. He had always been suspicious of Lafitte. He was a little too stoic for Alastair’s taste. All quiet determination and grim wisdom, constantly smoothing disputes on board instead of instilling the fear of the Navy into the wastrels. And now he knew that his worst suspicions were correct, the only way this man had survived was because Lafitte had rescued him.

He worried at his lip when he yanked that head back would he see the same defiance mixing with gold flecks in those green eyes. Would they darken with the same hatred? He wiped his face, subconsciously echoing the memory of wiping blood and spittle from his skin where the little bastard had spat in his face as he questioned him aboard The Redoubtable. He should, of course, send a despatch, await orders. But he had captured the most wanted of pirates in the Caribbean. A man he could now prove was party to a near mutiny aboard The Redoubtable, a mutiny that had nearly ended Adler’s, and his own, career.

Alastair walked slowly around the figure of Dean Smith still trying to find his feet, stretched as he was between two of his men. Last time he had seen him, those scars had been open wounds, he was stronger now clearly, a full grown man, rather than a boy on the cusp of fulfilling adult strength. So Dean Smith, the stable hand, grew up to be, Dean Smith, The Righteous Man, a folk hero. Well, well. He should really have known, but Smith was a common enough name and what were the chances that he had survived the whipping meted out at his own hand?

Alastair had not been much surprised at the news of Adler’s disgrace when he arrived in Port Solace. Adler always was a pompous ass. Allowing this man to run rings around him was no shock. But Alastair was not Adler. He stared at the man before him and let himself imagine his moment of triumph: Arriving in Port Royal aboard the most spectacularly powerful ship that the Royal Navy had ever produced, dragging the most wanted outlaw down his gangplank in chains... He would be the stuff of legend. And as a bonus, the trip would give him at least ten days to reacquaint Dean with the reasons for not annoying him.

“Milton!” The Lieutenant was still staring at the figure half slumped on the deck, but he snapped to attention as his name was called. “The repairs are finished, are they not?”

“Indeed, sir, we have but one more alteration on the foredeck to complete, in readiness for our departure tomorrow.

Alastair smiled. “I think then, with such minor works to complete, we will set sail this very afternoon.” The Lieutenant looked vaguely troubled. “Problem, Milton?”

\---

Castiel thought quickly. “No sir, but I have accounts to settle in the town, perhaps with your leave I might be allowed a few moments ashore to…”

Alastair gave him a smile. It did not reach his dead, cold eyes. “Make your instructions, Milton. The harbour boy will carry your messages.” His hesitation was not unnoted. “Well hurry man. T’will not take the Smithy long to fit our prisoner with fetters. I feel we may have use for him on deck. Surely you would not miss out on the chance for some sweet vengeance.”

Hiding his misery for Dean’s sake, Cas returned to his cabin and wrote a hurried note to give to the harbour boy, careful as ever not to be too explicit, he hoped Cole and eventually someone else loyal to Dean would understand his message.

\---

The Impala was two days short of the mouth of the St. Lucie. Their intended rendezvous. Bobby smiled at the charts as he marked fresh channels and new banks of sand and shale, shifted by the storm. Many of the notes were in Jo’s tiny neat hand and he felt a little surge of pride that his soon to be stepdaughter was capable of such careful and accurate work. She had clearly spent her time aboard the Impala working hard and seemed to have missed very little.

“She has a lot of spirit, that one,” Benny chuckled.

“Indeed she does,” Bobby remarked in response. “Not nearly as much has her darned mother!”

“Best not let either of them hear you speak so frankly,” Sam said calmly. “I fear the sea and the Dreadnought would seem like clawless kittens in comparison.”

Bobby chuckled. “Away with you boy. Ellen and I have an understanding, and when this is over, if I’m still alive we will make it official.”

“We best be sure you live then,” Sam mumbled, half to himself. “I sure as hell ain’t telling her if you get yourself killed. I’m pretty darned sure she’d find a way to resurrect you, just so she could kill you herself all over again!”

\---

The sound of metal on metal rang through his ears, even as the white burst of pain dragged Dean back from unconsciousness. He bit his cheek, champing down on the scream that seemed determined to burst from his throat. He fought briefly against the hands pinning him to the deck, gasping for air as cold water shocked his lungs to a stuttering halt, the scald of steam at his wrists blissfully brief.  

“I learned my lesson from Adler,” Alastair’s cruel hiss intoned, “There’ll be no friendly blade to cut you free this time, Dean. This time you spend your time in irons.”

He glared at the smith as he linked a length of chain between the d-rings attached to the manacles about his wrists. No mere lock for Dean apparently, the metal was clamped shut with a rivet and a heated hammer. The man’s hands were shaking slightly and despite the pain, Dean felt momentary pity for him. The look in his eye was all too familiar. It was a look Dean had seen in many faces aboard The Redoubtable. This was not a man who enjoyed his part.

“A collar too,” Alastair ordered. “But not fused with heat, a bolt will suffice, we don’t wish to damage that fine neck: That we’ll need clean and unblemished for the hangman.”

Dean’s lip curled into a sneer. He allowed himself to be manhandled onto his knees, his wrists stung sharply and he glanced at them, the metal was tight enough against his skin that he could only see the edges of the blisters in his flesh. The metal of the collar was cold against his neck and the thud of the bolt driving home seemed to jar his whole body, as the smith slid his rasp smoothly over the edge of the join to remove the burr. “I’m so sorry son,” he whispered quietly into Dean’s ear, his breath hot against his lobe. Dean side-eyed him briefly before the chains from his wrists were looped cinched to his collar and through a large d ring bolted into the deck. They let him go then and he fell onto all fours. The iron was heavy, the links clinking noisily as he moved.

The smith was removing the tools of his trade, stowing them in his toolbox and folding it shut as the crew began the process of setting The Dreadnought out of the harbour and onto the open sea.

\---

Castiel swallowed hard. He had re-joined Brown on the quarterdeck. He could not bring himself to think of this man as Captain, despite his rank. _His_ captain was wearing chains and currently on his hands and knees on the main deck, having been subjected to who knew what humiliation while he had kept up his pretense of being a good naval lieutenant, supervising the final part of the refit, so they could set sail immediately.

The port had receded into the distance astern, the coastline a thin and persistent line to starboard as they headed South. At length, Alastair Brown turned to acknowledge him. “Ready for some sport, Lieutenant?”

In truth, not, but Castiel forced a smile onto his face and nodded. He dared not risk his voice, for fear it would give him away. He followed behind Brown as he made his way down the steps, pausing only to open a chest to one side of the deck, pulling a switching birch from its depths. Castiel fought a wave of nausea. He was not sure he could maintain his pretense and then Dean raised his head and for a moment their eyes met. Blue filled with pain and green with understanding. Then Dean’s head dropped forward once more, as Alastair turned towards him, using the top of the birch to run along the prominent scars.

“Remember how you came about these, boy?”

Dean’s head raised slowly and this time the green was dark with hate as he looked at Brown.

“Well? Surely you can recall… perhaps a reminder?”

The snapping crack of the birch was deafening even over the noise of the vessel as she sliced through the waves. But the only noise that passed Dean’s lips was a sharp intake of breath.

“As I recall…” again the birch made contact, a second raised stripe appeared forming an oblique cross on Dean’s back, “...It took me a dozen or more blows to break your silence last time, shall we see if time has given you more sense.”

“Go to hell.”

 

 

**Retribution**

 

The Impala continued her steady progress up the coast, bow breaking through the swell, effortlessly. What should have been nervous tension among the crew was replaced with quiet determination. It would take another day of hard sailing to make the rendezvous. Sam stood watching his Godfather, Benny, and Garth about the chart table, debating their best course of action. To lay ambush sounded simple enough, but the Dreadnought was rumoured to be heavily armed they had been switching back and forth between strategies for over an hour.

“... she’ll be heavy in the water,” Benny said. “She was not a ship renowned for being swift or sharp on the turn before the refit. All that armoury will require a low ballast.”

“Then we should lure her into the shallows,” Benny muttered. He stabbed a thick finger into the map.

Three heads dipped forward, the sandbanks off the St. Lucie were well known, they shifted about slightly but their general area was marked on every chart.

Somewhere high above them all, a throat was cleared. “Not those,” Tran said softly, flipping down from the rigging. “Those he will know.” He slid his finger further along the chart to a freshly inked batch of markings. “These he knows nothing about, his charts won’t even show these.”

Benny gave a low whistle. “He’s right. We only know this is there because of Miss Jobeth’s depth soundings, we passed at high tide. We show ourselves and sail through that gully at low tide. Arrogant fool will surely give chase, unable to resist the opportunity to destroy the infamous Impala. We’ll skip over and through those banks light as a fairy princess, while he will lose speed and be even more dead in the water.”

“He may even run aground,”Garth added softly. “All the gunnery in the navy won’t help him if we can run rings about him.”  

“All of this is pretty pointless if the lieutenant is still aboard,” Sam said softly. “Surely we need a plan for that, we can hardly blow her out of the water if…”

“Quite right,” Benny clapped the young man on his shoulder.

Somewhere above them, Tran chuckled. “It would seem the Gods have heard you, Sam.” He pointed towards the shore. At first, none of the men on deck could see what had caught his attention, but Benny seized an eyeglass and coiled a thick forearm into the rigging to haul himself to a greater height. Most sailor were quick about the rigging, but Tran was a sprite. It took Benny several moments to gain enough height to match his vantage point, but once he did he grinned widely.

“Well, I’ll be damned… it seems Master Tran is correct. We are blessed…”

\---

“Go to hell.” Dean managed to grit out, even as the birch fell again.

“Oh, so this time it speaks,” Alastair drawled. The scratch of the birch tip traced the lines of the fresh wounds in his back, burning like the tip of a hot iron. “What say you, Lieutenant? How many strikes do you think it will take to make him beg? For he did not last time. He passed out before that point… that’s why this time, no cat for Smith, for the cat got his tongue… this time I use the birch, no sweet oblivion this time, Smith. Just…” the birch swished through the air in time to his words, “...the...sweet...bite...of...the...switch.”

Familiar boots appeared in his eyeline and fingers pinched harsh at his jaw as his face was wrenched upwards.

\---

It took every ounce of strength that Castiel possessed for him not to wince, as the blows fell, weals raised almost immediately with each strike, beads of glistening dark burgundy all along their length amidst the bronze and white, a sheen of sweat shining on Dean's skin. Swallowing hard, Castiel brushed past Brown and seized his chin, forcing Dean's head up. and back.

“You waste your time, sir,” he told Brown, eyebrows raised, regarding Dean with a look of such cold cruelty that Dean actually flinched slightly. “With all that scar tissue, he will scarce feel anything and he has had years to endure and carry all sorts of physical hardship. If you wish to break this man, you have to break his pride, not his back. Isn’t that so, pirate?”

Dean glared at Castiel, eyes narrowing. “He asked you a question pirate.” Alastair drawled. The switch fell again.

“Go to hell,” Dean growled defiantly, “and take your bitch with you.”

Castiel slapped his face hard. “Manners maketh the man, pirate. Have you not yet learned the difference between a pirate and a gentleman? That’s _sir_ to the likes of you.”

“Go to hell…. _sir?”_ his voice dripped insolence, but Castiel simply dropped his grip, wiping his hand on his uniform britches as if vaguely disgusted.

Behind him, Alastair chuckled heartily, “My, my, Milton, aren’t you the dark horse.” He handed the birch to Castiel, who used the tip of it to lift Dean’s chin with a look of studied distaste. Alastair seized a nearby bucket and tipped its contents over Dean, who hissed a breath through his teeth as the stench of ammonia reached Castiel. Alastair laughed heartily and turned away towards his cabin.“I think I’ll leave you at play,” he said. “You’ve earned it, with your hard work aboard ship and I have a course to chart.”

Careful not to let his relief show, Castiel let Dean’s head fall back to the deck. “My boots appear to be dirty, pirate,” he said loud enough for the men about him to hear. If they survived this he would make it up to him somehow, but for now, he could not risk any show of weakness. “I feel they are in need of a clean.” He pushed his toe in front of Dean, who calmly spat on the leather. With Alastair’s gaze still burning into him, Castiel had little choice. Dear God, let him forgive me for this, he thought. “For that,” he growled, gripping the back of Dean’s neck and pushing his head down, “You can use your tongue!”

Alastair’s harsh laughter carried across the deck as he moved away, presumably unaware that the contact of fingers to skin, far from the harsh punishing grip it appeared was a gentle touch of comfort.

\---

Castiel ducked his head and entered the officers’ quarters just as the sun began to set. He did not, in truth, wish to leave the deck. Alastair seemed delighted that he had spent all afternoon tormenting and humiliating the pirate, but he had ordered the Lieutenant to join him for their usual evening meal.

“We have much to discuss, Milton. Our prisoner will still be there in the morning…”

As soon as the door shut behind the man tasked with bringing their dinner, Alastair turned to Castiel.

“I confess you have pleasantly surprised me, Milton. I am delighted with your conduct, I had feared you would be soft and yielding. I am so grateful for your input. I feel you have opened up a whole new avenue for me. Much more subtly cruel than I gave you credit for. I feel the next couple of weeks will provide us both with such opportunities for revenge. However, I'm afraid I am the bearer of bad tidings. You have been cruelly deceived, Milton. A man you trusted has betrayed you ”

“How so, sir?” Castiel asked carefully. 

“I am afraid that Lafitte must be in cahoots with Smith.”

Castiel shook his head in protest, but Alastair pressed on. “I know for certain that the pirate Dean Smith is a deserter. You must remember I mentioned that I served with Lafitte, well this man Smith was a mere boy at the time. He was a pawn in a much more sinister game, part of a plot to mutiny, but he was betrayed and caught. Because of his age, Adler offered him clemency if he exposed the plotters, but he refused, so Adler had little choice. Those scars on his back?... Are from that very incident. He was whipped in an effort to have him give forth the name of his co-conspirators, but he weakened under the onslaught and simply passed out. The plan was to keelhaul him, until he confessed and spake of the plot and then to hang him as per regulations”

Castiel suppressed a shudder, the practice of dragging a man back and forth under a boat was pure barbarism. Few survived it, if they did not drown, they usually died from infection as the barnacles and seashells on the keel scraped skin and flesh from their bones. If Alastair noticed his discomfort, he said nothing. Or perhaps he assumed it to be the result of the disclosure about Lafitte, he just continued with his monologue.

“Captain Adler ordered him left where he was overnight as a warning and a deterrent to others, but during the night he was cut loose. The crewmen responsible for the watch duty that night claimed he died and that they tipped his body overboard…”

Castiel nodded, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world, “Better to dispose of the body than to let it fester on the deck. I still don't see how this convinces you of Lafitte's dishonour. He has never once given me cause to doubt his loyalty. In fact, he is the reason I am free… He almost certainly languishes now as a captive of the pirate crew, because…”

“Believe me,” Alastair replied, cutting him off. “It brings me no pleasure to disabuse you of his honourability.” Somehow Castiel doubted that statement, but he worked his features flat to hide it from his face. It seemed to him that Alastair was enjoying this a little too much. Alastair poured them both a glass of claret to go with their meal. “The very fact that Dean Smith is still alive is proof to me of Lafitte’s complicity, Milton. He was one of the sailors on watch that night. ”

“Perhaps he was deceived,” Castiel said, “Or did not keep a proper watch and hid the deeds of someone else out of fear… although I would find it hard to believe he would so do.”

“No, no, Milton. It cannot be so. For it was Lafitte who told me that the boy was dead. It was he who claimed to have dumped his body over the side. The mere fact that Dean Smith lives is proof that Lafitte is a traitor. In fact, a good many other things now make sense. It is clear to me that it was probably he who planned the mutiny. As soon as we enter Port Royal, we shall set the record straight.”

 

**Redemption**

 

Everything ached. It was not the agony of years ago when his back had been a bloody pulp, but nor was it the dull bone-deep ache of excessive work and beatings that he had carried every day for his year aboard The Redoubtable. This was the determined ache of a body too abused to function properly. He gave himself a moment to be miserable as he stared at the metal on his wrists. Alastair was correct, there would be no easy escape this time.

He was well aware that Cas had saved him from being in a far worse state, so he had played along all afternoon, defiant enough that no-one would suspect Cas of giving him an easy ride, but just compliant enough so that he had not been pushed to do any more damage. The heavy reassuring weight of Cas’ hand on his neck, the gentle bite of his fingers into the muscles of his shoulders, carefully avoiding the birch stripes that he could now feel pulling tight across his back as they dry scabbed had been grounding, comforting, safe, even in this predicament.

But still he had not managed to warn Cas about the arrest warrant and that was what mattered most. He had to get the lieutenant to leave this vessel before they reached Port Royal and whilst he did not want to be arrogant, he suspected the hardest part was going to be convincing the damned fool to go without him. So he would just have to figure out a way to get them away together. He thought about the whispered apology made by the smith… perhaps…


	21. Interlude Ten

**Earlier that same day in Port Solace**

 

He was roused from his bedchambers that morning by the landlord. Insistent that he must come downstairs, he has a visitor who wishes to speak to him as a matter of some urgency. Heart pounding, feeling vaguely nauseous he does not bothered to dress, merely yanks on his britches and tucks his nightshirt under his waist buttons.

The landlord leads him to the scullery, but it is not the man he expects to see stood in the cool dark room. For there in the half-light of dawn he sees the familiar outline of a man who had not long ago pulled gently on his leg iron.

“Captain Smith!” This was a visitor he had definitely not expected, but he is a welcome sight none-the-less.

While the landlord takes his leave to bring them a hasty breakfast, Cole takes his leave and makes swift progress to his room. He picks up the letter entrusted to him by Milton some days before. On his return he discovers the landlord has capped off the feast with a tankard of ale apiece, retreating smoothly to let them talk. And whilst it is a little early for him, Cole finds it a salve to his tattered nerves.

“He went to the docks merely to get aboard and seek out some information,” he says of the Lieutenant, “but that very evening, two crewmen came here to collect his things. I feared at first they were here for me, sure I had been betrayed, but the Landlord passed me off as his steward. A note arrived shortly after, Brown has insisted... He is short a lieutenant and pressed Milton into service…”

“He’s good at that,” the Captain murmurs dryly, breaking the seal on the letter addressed in neat curling hand to an M. de Bois.

“Milton has been passing messages via the harbour master’s boy. He sent plans of the Dreadnought and notes… his observations of her weak points. Brown has entrusted the refit to his supervision so he has unfettered access to all decks and every nook and cranny, but I will leave you to read your letter in peace...I hid the plans outside my window under a loose shingle, lest the rooms here be searched. It will take me some moments to retrieve them.”

When he re-enters the scullery a full half-hour later, the Captain is hurriedly writing on parchment of his own. He glances up as Cole pushes at the door, folding his letter and sliding it into his own boot. “We must get the Lieutenant off that ship as soon as possible. He has been wrongfully accused of desertion and cowardice. His arrest warrant will surely arrive any day now.” The Captain’s voice breaks slightly and Cole takes in the slight flush to his cheeks, without comment. He has already discerned from the lieutenant a certain fondness for this man, and it seems it is probable it is reciprocated.

“I can give you the boy’s address, he is a faithful lad and will carry your message gladly. Your friend Ash was using him first and has won his allegiance with silver, while Milton furthered it with kindness,” Cole smiles. “He is uncommonly kind, is he not, your lieutenant.”

“He is indeed, but if we do not get him off that ship, Cole and he sails to Port Royal. He will hang. My own vessel is sailing for the mouth of the St. Lucie, to wait there for me to rejoin her. My intention was to lay ambush to The Dreadnought, but I care not for it anymore. I only wish to ensure that Milton is safe. I will carry the letter to the boy myself, I cannot entrust it to anyone else and I would not make you take any more risk than you already have for my sake. I will only ask you one more tiny favour, take care of these plans and documents until I return for them.”

They finish their breakfast and the landlord unbolts his rear door, letting the Captain slip out into the street. Cole returns to his room when he hears a commotion outside. Careful not to be observed he peers from his upstairs window. In the street below he sees the Captain pounced upon by three or four men, cudgels raised.

He has been quickly overwhelmed, despite leaving one man prone in the street. Then, one of the naval men slides away from the group, leaving two to drag Smith now slumped lifelessly between them down the street towards the port. A figure slips from the shadows, almost opposite the window from which Cole observes, he recognises the voice carrying on the morning air, clear and sharp as if he were sat beside the man.

“I told you I saw him. Now, what of my reward?”

For a moment he is fearful that he will be seen by the navy man, especially when Carter turns his face up towards this very window, a silent, open-mouthed protest morphing into a look of extreme pain. Then he realises, the naval man is wiping something on his trouser. Cole watches Carter slump sideways into the gutter, his lifeblood pooling dark in the gutter and slipping like mercury through the dips in the cobbles down the steep slope towards the port. A blade glints briefly in the rising sun as it is stowed away. Cole quietly folds the shutters closed and settles onto his bunk, beside the scattering of documents, deep in thought.


	22. An Ill Wind

**An Ill Wind**

A stiff Northerly wind brought colder weather down the sweep of the coastline. The Impala battled into the waves, to sail into the prevailing wind was always a challenge and the zigzag of a heavy tack was going to add at least a day to their sail.

Sam was watchful as ever and he could see the tension in the experienced seamen on board. He asked Garth quietly if the change in the weather was going to cause them problems. He tried not to take it personally when a man a scant couple of years older ruffled his hair. “Not as you need worry, Sam. It makes the going harder, but to attack in a storm will improve our chances.”

“A storm?” He heard the squeak of alarm in his own voice, but so clearly had Benny. With a swift look at Bobby across the quarterdeck, he suggested they go below decks and begin to sort the table for them all to gather for an evening meal.

Sam was not fooled, but contrary to what he thought, Benny had no intention of mollycoddling him. Far from it, he was very direct.

“What delays us by a day, will surely speed The Dreadnought, she sails with the prevailing wind behind her, she may even gain a full day with the extra speed. It will bring our liaison about all the sooner. It may be that your brother will not complete the journey in time, he would have had to set off a day before she sails to even stand a chance of beating her down the coast normally, but to make it first when she has the advantage of the prevailing wind? He would need to be a mercury. At the very best, it is likely we will be fully engaged before he can reach us.”

Benny paused as he retrieved a bucket of bowls, the wooden vessels making a strangely soothing music as they thunked softly against one another.

“So it may be all over before he even gets back to us,” Sam said quietly and Benny gave a muted laugh.

“Indeed. Your dumbass brother, and believe me Sam I say this with the greatest respect for I love him dearly, but your dumbass brother is just going to have to lump it. He chose to go running off and ditch our measured plans, so he must take the consequences of missing his own big moment”

“I take no offense, Benny. Believe me. He is my big brother, but dumbass is mild for the things I have accused him of…” He swallowed convulsively and blinked hard, looking suddenly very young. “I just wish… I wish I had not been so hard on him.”

Benny’s huge meaty hand fell on his shoulder and his grip flexed. “Worry not. He won’t forgive you, for he will not think there is anything to forgive… He’ll be far too busy trying to pretend to himself that he is not to blame, for the things he is indeed not to blame for, but feels the guilt of anyway. I was less than kindly to him myself after the trick he pulled leaving Milton alone in Solace. Your brother is the most infuriating, stubborn, bull-headed bundle of contradictions I have ever come across and you can never be as hard on him as he is on himself… Yet he is also one of the kindest, bravest and most loyal men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. As I say. Infuriating. But angry or not to miss his great showdown, he only has himself to blame.”

Benny cleared his throat and Sam sniffed. “Honestly…” the youngster hesitated, unsure whether he should say anything at all, let alone how to express it, so he blurted it out, “ I don’t think he will give a damn…he is more concerned with...” He was thinking of a sunny afternoon, when he was taught his knots with quiet patience on this very quarterdeck. His surprised jolt of recognition at the mother of pearl handled knife wielded by elegant hands to trim the ends of the ropes.  He looked up into Benny's face and saw his own understanding reflected back at him. So he was not the only person who thought so.

“Buck up, now Sam,” Benny cajoled. “We have much to plan and prepare for over this meal. This squally weather with give us some advantage when we face this bastard, but I want you to speak up when something strikes you. You’re a fast learner and your mind is quick. You have much to contribute to our plotting and don’t you forget it!”

\---

During the day, the wind had swung round behind them and was bringing with it a chill blast. The air was becoming heavy with moisture, not the heavy blanket heat that gave no quarter, but the squall of cold droplets that bit at fingers and ears and noses and made heavy work of knots and fine working.

Half naked and with breeches soaked through Dean had started shivering as the temperature dipped. Movements limited by the chains mooring him to the deck, he had little choice but to stay on his knees, the chain to his neck too short to allow him the luxury of sitting upright even if he chose to. He spent much of the day with his forehead touching the deck boards, occasionally shifting his feet to prevent the pins and needles that threatened. He blew on his hands occasionally but otherwise kept them tucked between his thighs in an effort to keep at least a little colour and warmth in them. At least the smell of urine was diminishing, rinsed from his hair, skin, and clothing by the steadily falling rain.

As the sky began to darken he was rapidly reaching the point of deep muscular tremors that he could do nothing to disguise. His jaw ached from the tension of keeping his teeth from rattling in his head. The heavy weather was keeping the crew busy, including Brown, who paused only to land a well-aimed kick or two as he passed, increasing the bouquet of bruises and marks on his already purply dappled skin.

He had seen Castiel only once, first thing this morning, their eyes meeting briefly as the Lieutenant strode past on his way under Alastair’s cold watch, to follow whatever orders he had been given. Tall and striking in his navy togs, he disappeared below decks with one last final glance in Dean’s direction.

The cold had bitten hard into his skin, which at least gave blissful relief from the acute pain of the scalds at his wrists and the mess of wounds on his back. The bone-deep ache remained: Reassuringly constant. Dean was well aware that to not feel that would be a bad sign. Although, he thought grimly, so long as he could get his message to Castiel about getting off this bastard's ship, dying of exposure would at least solve the problem of getting the dumbass to leave him. He chuckled to himself and realised that maybe he was a little delirious.

He had pretty much lost all track of time after that. Last time he had thought to notice it there had still been some light, but now it seemed that aside from the dotted lights of lanterns swinging with the motion of the sea, that darkness had swamped them. The mournful clang of pulleys and metal fixings, tolled softly, as if a gang of half-drunk bell-ringers had been let loose with a peal of out of tune bells and were half-heartedly pulling the ropes between slugs of liquor.

“...perhaps move him below deck, sir. No sport in losing him to the elements two or three days into the voyage. The Commodore will not be pleased to be denied his moment with the gallows.” Gee, thanks Cas, he thought, save a guy for his big dramatic moment why don’t cha.

He tried to squint against the dark, but he could make out nothing but the blur of lamps. A smattering of rain hit his face and he let his head dip again, mind drifting away into the soft confines of a warm, sun striped bed.

The hand that touched his shoulder felt like a firebrand and he started awake, the croaked ‘Cas’ thankfully lost into the howl of the wind. He looked up expecting to see blue eyes staring at him from a classically chiseled face, but met instead the bearded, focussed, but not unkind features of the blacksmith.

\---

The evening meal was a surprisingly jovial affair. They shared not one but two bottles of Captain Brown’s fine claret. “‘M grateful to you, Milton. Your self-control’s impressive.” Brown’s voice was softly slurred. “You’re right. I would ‘ave left him on deck to suffer in the cold… but you’re right as always. He might have died of it and that would have been a travesty.”

Castiel acknowledged him with a raise of his goblet and Brown joined him, clashing them together and sloshing some of the claret onto the table. It spread like a blush across his discarded napkin.

“While we live, let us live,” Alastair toasted.

 

**Fire in the Hold**

 

Dean did not fight the hands that half-dragged, half-carried him below decks. For one thing, they were not gripping him cruelly, in fact, they were almost gentle. For another, he didn’t have the energy. And lastly, even if he managed to free himself he doubted he could even stand, let alone flee. Choose your battles, son, always choose your battles. Little point in saving a frigate if you lose the fleet.

His wrists were raw, the blisters burst as the fetters had been broken open. He had only half heard the protest of one of the men holding him steady. “The Captain only said to take him below…” The smith had simply replied that it would be easier to move him unfettered and that collars and cuffs were easier to break open than chain links. Liar, liar.

They dropped him down and straw rustled under his aching body and for a moment he fancied they had set him down into a flaming bed. He could not feel the itch of the straw, but his whole skin was afire. Cold metal clamped about his ankles this time. He heard the jangle of keys and the slam of a door. Thinking he must, at last, be alone, he allowed himself a small groan of pain. His eyes springing open in alarm as a voice broke through the haze. “I know, laddie,” he stared up into the sympathetic face of the smith once more. “Hush now. Here. My orders were to bring you below and make sure you lived. He didna specify for how long. I cannae get you outta here, but a blanket and something to ease you through the hot aches… well now… that would surely only be me following mae orders do you not think?”

Dean choked on the strength of the liquor in the flask pressed to his lip, but he swallowed it anyway, feeling it burn all the way down his gullet. Suddenly he realised his feet were bare. Oh God, his letter was in his boots. His letter to Cas… “My boots…” he managed to croak.

“Overboard, ye'll be glad to hear.” The smith replied. “And now I must leave. Fare well laddie and good luck.”

It was only as the door closed and locked behind the smith and he laid back in the straw that he realised two small things. Firstly he did not even know the smith’s name and secondly that the farewell had seemed so incredibly final, that he doubted he would ever find out.

\---

The sea was rougher than it had been in many weeks when the lookout caught the sight of a flickering light in the distance. The rain had eased away and the sky cleared, so visibility was not quite so poor as it had been, but the moon was at quarter and a haze of fog lay over the ocean to a depth of some twenty feet. It would be enough at a distance to obscure all but the rigging of other ships. He watched it for a moment to try and calculate its source and realised that was what his eyes were seeing. The flash of the light was not regular enough to be a beacon. He called to the man at the helm and a sailor was sent to the bow lookout for a second opinion.  

“It’s a navy supply ship.” The second man shouted, voice whipping in the wind. “The signalman must be using lanterns to display her flags.”

“Can you make them out?” The helmsman called. “Call me a course.”

He shifted the wheel in response to new bearings. They sailed on, both lookouts focussed on the smaller vessel. Until the first man to spy her suddenly shouted. “She must be in distress, her Jack is upside down.”

“Call the duty watch.” The helmsman ordered the man beside him. With a sigh, for he had been happily dozing, the man rolled from his position propped against the helm and made his way aforedecks. Waking the duty officer was never a popular task, but at least it would be his decision whether or not to wake the Captain. He was welcome to that.

He slid down the ladder to the main deck and dropped out of the line of sight of the other men on deck. He turned almost back on himself behind the shrouds intent on dropping down to the sleeping quarters. He scarcely felt the blow to the back of his head and certainly did not feel himself lifted over the rail and dropped into the landing boat.

Dusting his hands on his tunic with a frown of mild annoyance, his attacker slipped back out of the shadows and made his way below decks.

\---

Bobby let out a long-held sigh and dropped his eyeglass. Beside him, Benny mumbled something barely coherent. “She’s changing course,” Bobby confirmed, “and it’s definitely her. Low in the water, and so many cannon hatches along her sides 'tis a wonder she’s structurally sound.”

“A full day and a half earlier than we anticipated,” Benny said a little more loudly this time, “But I suppose that means we’re on.”

\---

 

His hands at first as white as bleached bones had come alive. So painfully sensitive that it had been sheer agony to let his fingers touch. Once the hotaches had subsided to a background level of pain, aided by the burn of liquor in his gut, Dean pushed himself up weakly and checked the manacles about his ankles. They were locked and too tight to slip his bare feet free and from what he could feel in the gloom of his cell, they were linked by chains to a hoop hammered deep into the oak beam of his cell. He slid carefully backward and experimented in an effort to find a patch of his back that did not feel painful against the wooden planking. He must be against the inner hull, somewhere amidships judging by the curve of the wall.

He closed his eyes, glad of the privacy and the respite from the worry of abuse. If he got through this he was gonna make it up to Cas. If he ever got the chance he was going to tell him everything, every goddamn thing. He should never have left him in that godforsaken port. He was an idiot. He smiled. Correction, he was an idjut.

He did not open his eyes when he heard the lock turn in the door. If he’d had more warning he would have shifted back to lie in the straw, but the suddenness of the movement might be noted so he settled for slumping against the wall to feign unconsciousness.

A hand closed over his mouth and the scent of the skin had his eyes flying open. Blue eyes watched him for signs of lucidity and he nodded under the grip. The hand fell away and Cas moved towards his ankles, picking the locks on his irons with significant ease.

“You, Lieutenant Milton, clearly had a misspent youth. No-one innocent can pick locks so easily…” he swallowed, his voice cracking slightly.

“Every man has hobbies, Captain.” The manacles fell away and with an 'oof' of surprise Castiel dropped his picks and slammed his palms against the walls to stop himself from landing right on top of Dean, as his tunic was twisted and he was yanked forwards.

“We don’t,” he protested between kisses as he tried to disengage himself, “have time for this.”

As if to confirm his statement, a loud thumping sound echoed through the vessel and she shook violently under them. A cascade of dust and fine splinters falling around them in a cloud. Alarm calls and whistles sounded throughout the ship.

“Here, put this on,” Castiel shoved a rolled tunic into Dean’s hands, turning his head back towards the door. “Can you stand unaided?”

Dean glared at him as he pulled the tunic awkwardly over his head, hissing as the fabric touched his back, but when he tried to stand he found his legs buckling feebly and he stamped his bare feet into the dusty straw to try and make them behave.

“Sorry,” Cas mumbled as Dean groaned when he pushed himself under his arm and slid his own around his waist. “We really have to get moving… we don’t have long. My apologies, I was delayed getting to you.”

“Then stop wasting time ‘pologising,” he mumbled, “and let’s move.”

He felt rather than saw Castiel roll his eyes and then awkwardly and clumsily, the skin of his soles sliding over the boards, they were making their way through the decks.

 

**To Spring a Trap**

The quarter moon finally slid clear of the remaining hazy cloud and the wind switched direction driving the low lying mist before it, giving him an intermittent view of the surface. It was boiling, the waves capping and breaking, with a surge of alarm the lookout realised he could make out the shape of something jutting from the water ahead of them. “Hard a port,” he shouted, “hard a port.”

The helmsman reacted automatically dragging the wheel hard; his arms a blur as he forced The Dreadnought’s wheel round. She began turning sharply and then jumped sharply, a violent juddering scream shaking through the timbers.

The supply vessel was still making her slow and steady course towards them, almost all of her sails furled, only her main lower sail and her flags fluttering wildly in the rapidly changing wind.

\---

Below decks Cas almost dropped Dean as they were slammed against the stairs by the sudden change of course. Crewmen seemed to be running in all directions. Even those who were not on duty were on the move. It seemed highly unlikely that anyone could sleep through the alarm calls. No-one was paying any attention to them as Cas partially carried Dean in the direction of the open decks.

Dean did his best to keep feet under him. “We have to hurry,” Cas told him, his voice still dripping apologies as Dean groaned in pain. “I need to get us overboard and into one of the landing boats while the crew are busy dealing with the fires on board. I’m sorry this is gonna hurt.”

Before he knew what was going on, Dean gave an undignified squawk, followed by a groan at the press of Cas’ shoulder into his gut. He found himself staring at the seat of Cas’ breeches and in any other circumstance he might have been torn between the making a wisecrack about the view or the temptation to bite. He tried to relax aware that he would knock them both to the ground if he struggled, and instead let one swinging arm snake around Cas’ waist, using the other to grip his thigh and pull himself tightly against his back to give Cas better balance.

Cas gripped the stairs tightly and pushed Dean’s thighs against it holding him in place. “Hang on!” he shouted and mere seconds later another juddering boom echoed and shuddered past them, throwing equipment and dust in all directions. Somewhere behind them a lantern fell and broke and with a steady whoosh something caught fire, drawing the air past them with a weird sucking sensation in the closed environment, as it fed the flames.

Cas climbed the ladder stairs quickly and climbed up onto the deck and made across it towards the side rail. “Much as ‘m admiring the view,” Dean mumbled tapping against his thigh “Might be easier if you set me down.” Cas had stopped moving, but when he failed to lower him immediately Dean moved his hand and grabbed at his butt cheek squeezing it to gain attention.

Carefully Cas set him down, giving him a reproving look. “This is a difficult enough rescue mission, Dean, without you trying to distract me every five seconds. Dammit, I wasn’t expecting this…”

“I blame the smith's liquor,” Dean whispered, leaning heavily into Cas’s side, glad of the opportunity, even as he followed Castiel’s sight line and began scanning the horizon. “Weren’t expecting what exactly?”

“We’re under attack,” Cas said flatly. Somewhere below on the gun decks, The Dreadnought was rocked by an explosion and Dean gave him a puzzled look. So Cas grasped his chin and turned his head.

Sitting in the water someway off Dean could just make out the outline of a very familiar ship, his heart gave a little surge. “We made the St. Lucie mouth already?”

“I wasn’t expecting…” Cas pulled Dean down gently behind the cover of a pile of canvas and crates. “What was the exact plan here, Dean?”

Dean shook his head and then shrugged. “I left before they worked out the fine details...It was too urgent that I get to you to warn you and get you off the ship before…”

“And how exactly did you intend to do that as a prisoner?” Cas’ whisper was incredulous. “Besides, you’re the only reason I’m aboard this blasted vessel, playing nicey with Brown! If you didn’t want me anywhere near her why the hell did you leave me in port?”

“Well, that I didn’t plan on doing…It just kinda happened, all right.”

“Which? Leaving me in Solace or getting yourself captured?”

“Both,... neither…  Would you stop with the eye rolling… I’m here, aren’t I! I had to warn you Cas, Ash intercepted the naval despatches. Shurley reported you for desertion. Even if you had wanted to stay in the Navy you could not. So you see, I had to get to you somehow if you had gone into Port Royal...”

Cas shrugged and gave him a funny little grin. “On the bright side: I don’t think I need to buy myself out any longer… this is a pretty impressive way to demonstrate my intention to resign… I think even the navy might get the message…”

\---

Alastair Brown was surrounded by fools. He growled his impatience as the duty officer appeared in his cabin door, eyes wide. He strode past the man out onto the decks, not needing or wanting to hear what he had to say.

He mounted the quarterdeck and took in the scene around him as the duty officer staggered after him, spluttering explanations about Navy vessels in distress and munitions explosions aboard and uncharted shallows.

“We’re under attack you idiot,” Brown snapped.

The duty officer nodded, but clearly, he did not properly understand.

“This,” Brown said deliberately, “All of this, is a deliberate attack. That distressed vessel, she’s a fire ship!” The man was still staring at him and Alastair was rapidly tiring of his gormless expression. “Where’s Milton?” he snapped.

The duty officer shook his head. “He’s missing sir...the smith says he was helping fight the munitions fire before the second explosion…”

Alastair narrowed his eyes. “Bring me Crowley, and then send two men to fetch our prisoner.”

\---

The naval supply vessel was becoming a burning husk. At her wheel, scarf tied firmly over his face against the worst of the flames, the man who had been steering her, gripped his companion’s arm and pointed in the direction of a flashing lamplight high in the rigging of the Impala. He checked for a final time that the wheel was correctly aligned, clamping a carabina in place so that it was tightly fastened with a length of chain. Chain, because that would not burn through and let the ship drift off course. The two men moved swiftly and clambered over the side rail, dropping down into the small rowboat towing alongside the ship. With a flash of an arm brandishing a sharp knife, Benny slashed through the tow rope and grabbing an oar a piece he and Sam rowed themselves clear of their Godsend.


	23. Interlude Eleven

**Port Solace Two Days Before**

 

Dean slipped through the streets of Port Solace as the dawn broke. He let his exhausted mule loose into the first clean stable he came across and it wandered happily up to a feeding trough. He stopped briefly at a bakers shop, drawn by the scent of hot pies, to ask his way to the lodging house that Cas had hinted he would find them in.

He knocked carefully at the rear door and the landlord at first treating him with suspicion, opened the door wide at the mention of Ash and Garth. He had indeed had the Lieutenant lodging with him, but he had removed to his vessel. Dean sighed, of course, it could not have just been that simple could it. The landlord drew him inside and lead him to his scullery, he would fetch the Lieutenant's friend. Moments later, Cole appeared, his nightshirt tucked haphazardly into his britches.

\--

He was grateful to Cole for the privacy to read his letter. He was not sure that he could have remained inscrutable, his heart shattering with each carefully written line.

 

_I’ve money enough from my father’s estate to buy myself out of my commission. It will undoubtedly annoy my Grandfather, but I find I have no stomach for the Navy life. To return to it, after being aboard the family that is the crew of the Impala would be more than I could endure. And the thought that I might someday have to be party to your downfall, even by being part of the Navy… well, it simply cannot be._

_I have written and sent my resignation, but I will need to return to Port Royal to finalise the documents and pay my dues. From there I will go to the house at Tortuga and settle my affairs. Anna has long since desired that I return to her in France. She urged me to ignore our family's wishes and not join the Navy in the first place, knowing me well enough to think it would not suit me and would only serve me ill. Her wisdom is way beyond her years, but I have no regrets. If I had allowed myself to be persuaded, I would never have never gained the acquaintance of some very good people, nor learned so much about myself. And I would never have met you. And I cannot wish for any circumstance where I had not known you, even for so brief a time._

_You are so much braver than I. So much more selfless. I have to believe that you left me in Solace to force me to go back to my career because you believe it was the best thing for me._

_Because you knew I would not, could not, leave you of my own volition. And it is true. As the time drew closer, I found myself grateful for every excuse to stay longer. I am ashamed to admit, even the arrival of The Dreadnought was a source of joy to me, despite knowing how much it pained you, as it pushed us to be together for longer. I have to believe you left me in port for my own good because to contemplate the alternative is too painful. I cannot let myself believe you did it out of indifference to me._

_I will travel back to Solace and I will wait for one full month. If you do not return for me I will have your answer._

_C_

 

By the time Cole returned this time fully dressed, even down to his muddy boots, Dean had finished composing what he hoped was a sufficient reply. He did not deserve a man half as good or faithful as Cas, but deserved or not, he had him and he had to make sure he was safe.

 


	24. The Fountain Clear

**Hide and Seek**

Cas was squatting at the edge of their hidey hole, while Dean sat leaning against the crates, resting his aching body. If he thought he could convince Cas to go without him he would, but the hand firmly entwined with his own told him he would be wasting precious time. He knew it was there, because he could feel the burn of Cas skin on the raw patches of his wrists, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let go. Every so often Cas peeked round the edge of the crates on the lookout for an opportunity to make a break for the landing craft. But it was fairly obvious it was going to be impossible. “We need a new plan, Cas.”

“Well,” Cas grumbled, “My original plan didn’t include the entire ship striding about the decks in a blind panic. My original plan was to get us overboard into one of the landing craft before the alarm sounded and then to sneak away while the crew were busy fighting the fires on board.”

Dean gave him a weak smile. “Well, my original plan was for us to not even be on board. Well, not on board The Dreadnought anyway. I was grabbed before I could get a message to you…as I was leaving the lodging house.”

“Oh my God. Did they get Cole?”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t think so, they jumped me outside, just after I left.”

“Well thank heaven for small mercies…He has been most helpful. I wondered whether the plans I sent reached the Four Winds before the Impala set sail. Perhaps that is what Bobby is using…”

Dean shook his head as Cas turned back to look at him. “The plans you drew up were still with Cole, Cas. He had them hidden in his lodgings…”

Castiel squinted at Dean in confusion. “He was supposed to post them to you at the Four Winds, so that they were there when you collected Bobby…”

He had to find a way of stopping Cas from squinting like that it was far too distracting...Dean shook his head, “Your first letter was at the Inn, the second Cole gave to me himself, I left the plans with him, I intended once you were off the Dreadnought to go back and collect them before we headed down the coast to meet the Impala at the mouth…”

“I posted the first letter myself Dean. I entrusted the others to Cole to post for me.  He knew I wanted him to post them straight away. I had to send them via the harbour master’s boy, because I feared that Alastair was having me followed and I did not wish to risk… to risk giving Cole away or having my mail intercepted…”

"He said he had them hidden under the shingles outside his window. He went to fetch them for me while I read your letter," Dean's voice had dropped to a low murmur, his face reflecting the tumble of his thoughts. "I had time to write my reply he was gone so long...but I thought it was because he had taken the time to dress, he even put on his boots although they were muddy..."

For a moment they stared at each other, watching as the other’s features melted into realisation and then horror.

\---

“Bobby!” Tran’s voice held an edge of panic. Bobby swung his head up only in time to see the boy extinguishing his signal lantern, moments later he was dropping onto the deck. “There are three ships approaching…I saw the flash of a match out to sea and as the moon cleared… I could see a ship. At first, I thought it was just passing shipping, but there’s two more… they’re Navy, Bobby. There are three navy ships and they're heading this way.”

\---

“We have to warn them,” Dean sounded lost.

“I know,” Cas sounded equally miserable, “but how? Do they even know we are aboard?”

Behind them another explosion burst through the ship, rocking the whole vessel, this time she did not right herself fully, listing at a slight angle. Dean stared back towards the Impala, she had not fired, there had not been any cannon flash. He stared at Castiel, who gave him a gummy smile. “I told you,” he shrugged. “Hobbies.”

“We get out of this alive, we’re gonna discuss your hobbies and make sure there are no more surprises,” Dean murmured. “But I think they probably have a pretty good idea we’re aboard, or at least that one of us is.”

“I think maybe it’s time we weren’t.”

“Another little hobby project?”

Cas nodded. “We have about ten minutes before the main armoury blows. I laid fuses and small explosives while I was ‘signing off’ on those alterations. Can you swim?”

“Normally yes, but look at me Cas. I’m mincemeat that’s been through the grinder twice…”

“Don’t you dare ask me…I won’t...”

They stared at each other, fighting a silent battle. Dean sighed. “All right, all right. We go together.”

They slipped from their hiding place, keeping low to the deck. Cas lead, half carrying Dean, because he was still too weak to stand unaided. He was not sure where they were headed, but he put his trust in Cas and his knowledge of the layout of the ship to help them to stay out of sight. Dean checked once more over the side, the Impala was turning, coming closer. No, no, no, what the hell was Bobby doing? Then he saw the outline of another ship on the horizon and he realised why she was coming this way. He knew that if Bobby felt he was going to lose the Impala, he would damn well make sure he took The Dreadnought down with him.

He winced as he bent the wrist over Cas’ shoulder, but he needed to get his attention: He needed him to look but Cas had stopped moving and when he turned his head back Dean realised why.

\---

The Impala had stopped signalling them. There could be only one reason: She needed to go dark.  Benny stopped rowing and dropped his hand onto Sam’s arm. He stopped immediately.

“What is it?” Sam whispered.

“Time for Plan B,” Benny answered softly.

“What the hell is plan B?” Sam said.

“Dunno, haven’t made one yet.”

 

**Never Underestimate a Smith**

 

“Did you really think that your little display of the last few days has had me convinced?” Alastair laughed, as he pointed his pistol at them both. “Frenchie here is not _my_ bitch, is he, Winchester?”

Dean’s eyes widened, but he did not reply. “Oh, honestly,” Alastair continued. “… I’ve known who you were since before we set sail. It didn’t take much to put two and two together. That knife in his” he nodded in Castiel’s direction once more, “possession. With that inscription. D.W. And did you think I would not know your father’s motto? I played you, Winchester. And now I’ll get to watch you die. I missed the chance with your father, he was too far gone by the time I made it ashore…”

“You bastard,” Dean whispered harshly. “You utter bastard.”

Alastair chuckled even harder. Castiel was digging his fingers tight into Dean’s side, hard enough to actually hurt, but Dean ignored him.

“Originally, I was going to brand you, leave you carrying my name on your skin until I sailed you into Port Royal so I could watch you dragged through the streets in chains, watch you hang and know that you’d carry my name until you rotted to dust. But that was before I knew there was a Castiel. Now I can watch you hang side by side. Imagine that, you get to see each other die…I didn’t even manage to inflict that level of pain on your father, more’s the pity…”

It was only Castiel’s vice-like grip on his waist and the weakness in his legs that stopped Dean launching himself at Alastair.

“It’s not your lucky day is it, Winchester. You get to watch your precious ship sink… Oh that’s right, I know she’s out there, but so do the three naval frigates heading this way. It’s a shame, it would have been nice to wait till the dawn, so they could just capture her, but I’m afraid your pyrotechnics have put pay to that, Milton.  So Singer can choose, oh yes I know about him, too, as soon as I heard the description, I knew it was Singer... and then it made perfect sense, that the boy from Lyme Regis would prove to be the infamous pirate. Why else would Singer be aboard! I would say I'm being incredibly generous considering, giving him his choice of death: He can either surrender the ship and hang or he can drown with the other rats aboard… that will teach him to presume he can deceive me...” Castiel’s fingers were still flexing into Dean’s side, his other hand gripping Dean’s to keep it up over his shoulder. He was flexing his hand ever so slightly, pushing with his knuckles against Dean’s wrist. Dean could feel him breathing under his arm, feel the heat of his body in a solid line down his side, even the press of his thigh against his own. Could feel the slight flex as he indicated what he intended to do.

"You act like it's hard," Dean spat. "It's plenty easy to fool you."

Alastair laughed, but it was a cold mirthless sound. "I'm not the one who can barely stand, facing the wrong end of a pistol."

Castiel was shaking his wrist slightly, the press of his fingers into Dean's side twitching with urgency.

“So, charming as this has been. I think it's time to draw our little conversation to close, Dean. I'm going to be a busy man, as soon as this is over, I have to pay your little brother a visit. Clever Dean, to hide yourself and him in plain sight. I’m told Singer’s daughter is quite the firecracker… However, Milton, I think that as you have damaged my ship, it’s only fair that I take some revenge…  I think it might be sweeter for us to watch him die together, don't you think, Dean?"  With a sharp flush of adrenalin and steadily growing horror, Dean watched the tip of the pistol as Alastair took aim. "What do you think? ...a shot to the gut is an excruciating way to go or so I’m told… and slow...”

Dean was already moving as the pistol tip lurched, a whiff of smoke rising from the black of the barrel, but the sound was dwarfed by a booming blast somewhere in the depths of The Dreadnought. The deck under their feet lurched with a force far stronger than the movement of the ocean and flames blasted up from the grating over the hold as the main armoury began to blow.

Without Castiel’s gripping support and under the combined forces of Cas’s outstretched hand and the rocking thunder of the explosion below his feet, Dean was thrown to the deck. He struggled to push himself up onto all fours from his stomach, slipping in something wet and vaguely sticky all across the deck in front of him. Alastair was lying face up, pinned under the massive cross beam of the mast where it had fallen as a barrel from the armoury blasted skywards, but all Dean could see was Castiel’s blood splattered tunic as he sat, propped against the crates where the explosion had thrown him. Dean scrambled, half crawling, legs buckling, feeling rather than hearing his own voice muttering, “no, no, no!” the crackling burn of fire and percussive explosions as the munitions below deck ignited and blew in a series of loud cracks muting all other sounds.

His legs slipped behind him and he scrabbled frantically to reach the prone figure, he sank his fingers into the fabric pushing and pulling it upwards, but where he expected to find oozing wounds there was only smooth tan skin and Castiel was closing his fingers over his hands. “It’s not mine. The blood. It’s not mine. He missed.”

Bewildered as they pulled each other up, they moved together over the lurching deck and stared down at Alastair. He stared back at them sightlessly, a gaping hole where his throat should be. “I've never liked that man," above them on the listing deck, balanced on a pile of sail and broken rigging, the blacksmith looked at the weapon in his own hands. He threw it over the side with a dismissive gesture, dusting his hands on his thick black apron. "This time, Laddie, it really is goodbye. Take care of yourself now." He gave them a cheery wave as he moved up and along the deck, carefully avoiding the gaping hole in the deck. The calls to abandon ship increased and echoed around them. It seemed unlikely anyone would need asking twice.

\---

Captain Joshua Whittle watched through his eyeglass as the silhouette of the Impala grew in the raging firestorm that surrounded The Dreadnought. With one last enormous, eye-wateringly brilliant blast her hull shattered and even at their current distance his crew ducked as the heated breeze of the blast rolled over the sea and flashed over their decks. He signalled his sister ships, and they waited at a safe distance. The sky began to lighten over the Americas to their East. Only when he was sure that there would be no more explosions would he order them all closer to pluck the survivors from the water.

\---

The ship was breaking apart under their feet. Cas lifted Dean’s arm back over his shoulder, hauling them both towards the side rails of the main deck. It hung at a thirty degree angle, the water some ten feet below was inky black. Cas could feel the hairs on his arm singeing with the heat of the fire, but the thing that worried him most was the sticky warmth he could feel on Dean’s back and the desperate push against his own side as Dean tried to keep his legs under him.

He looked into the darkness, blinded by the blazing flames and took a leap of faith.

They fell together into the water, separated by the fall but holding hands. Cas pushed for the surface and was relieved to see Dean swimming weakly beside him, floating on his back. “You know, Cas…” he was gasping for air, and Cas tried to stroke his face to quiet him, but he was too determined to speak, face contorting with pain. “You know what I hate about being a pirate?”

Cas shook his head, tears mingling with the sea water.

“It's the salt water. Whenever you get fucking wounded…” His eyes were sliding shut, words slurring. “It stings like a fucking bitch.”

Cas made a grab for him, as his eyes slid closed and his movements stilled, pulling him close and kicking hard away from the hulk of the ship.

 

**The Fountain Clear**

 

The acrid smell of pitch and sail burning amid the debris in the water stung his nose more than the seawater, he gripped Dean tighter, struggling to keep his face clear of the swell, which was building. The sea around him was beginning to crest, as he bobbed over the top of one large wave he managed to scan around him, but the bright flames nearby made everything beyond them one dark uninterpretable mass. The only thing he could see was the increasing number of white caps luminous against the darkness and the looming hulk of the remains of the Dreadnought, shadows and flames still leaping and flickering inside her hull, her mighty masts and sails bobbing in the sea on either side. He must be getting closer to the shore, he told himself desperately, all those white caps… it had to be the shallowing of the water. But he knew he was lying to himself, it could just be the wind driving the tops over.

He kicked hard to try to move them out of the path of a line of breaking surf and almost lost his grip on Dean. He could not lose his hold, he gripped tighter, pulling Dean’s limp body up onto his own chest, his arm straining across Dean’s chest, hand tightening into the meat of his shoulder. He WOULD NOT let go. He had to allow them both to be swamped by the wave. The salty water burned his throat and he coughed and gasped to clear his own airway, using his free hand to wipe the seafoam from Dean’s face. He strained his neck trying to see, but felt the shuddering through his arm as Dean sucked in a breath. His own breathing was getting more and more laboured as he tired, floating as much as he could, treading water only to counteract Dean’s weight, pushing him under the water.

About him he could hear the cries of men desperate for rescue from the inky dark swell. Some were muttering prayers and he felt a twinging shock of guilt that he had brought this about, but he closed the thoughts down. He would not wallow. He could not wallow. Dean’s survival depended on him, there would be time for repentance and recrimination once Dean was safe.

Somewhere he heard a woman’s voice. Drifting over the surf. Confused, he gripped Dean tighter and another wave swamped them. When he surfaced, spluttering, his movements slow with cold, fingers refusing to bend as he checked Dean was still breathing, he heard her again. He realised she was singing. Why the hell was she singing? He turned his head this way and that, trying to dislodge the water from his ears.

... fontaine m’en allant promener...

J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle que je m’y suis baignée....

The sweetness of the lament was incongruous to the hell scene about him and he was so busy looking around for the source of the voice, he did not see bulk of the next wave until it broke on top of them, forcing them both down under the surface. He kicked hard, dragging himself and Dean clear into the air, choking and gasping for breath, scrabbling at Dean’s nose and mouth with fingers that refused to work. There was nothing clear and lovely about this water. It was the inky black salt of death and he was going to fight it. Another wave washed over them and he shook his head, snorting the sting of salt from his nose.

...Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai

Sous les feuilles d’un chêne…

He smiled softly to himself, at the sweetness of the melodic voice… _he remembered his mother, golden hair gleaming as she sat in the sunlit window of their home waiting patiently for his father to return, stroking her hand over the smooth bump of his sister._ Cold water splashed his face and he felt the weight pressing into his chest shift. Dean! He flexed his arm, forcing his numb fingers to grip tighter into the flesh. But still the voice was lulling him...

...Chante, rossignol, chante, toi qui as le cœur gai.

Tu as le cœur à rire…

_His mother turned towards him and smiled, her green eyes regarding him a little sadly._

They had drifted into a quieter patch of water, the swell bobbing and rolling them and he relaxed back into the water, grateful for the respite from the broiling, punishing surf.

 _Maybe it was Anna singing to him, it couldn’t be his mother, she lay with his father under the baked dirt and the rambling Bourganvillea…_ Anna is in France, you fool. Stay awake. Stay awake. Dean needs you. Dean will die without you... He could no longer feel his fingers or Dean’s shoulder, but he could still sense the movement of Dean’s chest under his arm.

Unless… the surge of panic roused him… unless that was just the motion of the sea. He coughed, expelling water from his own airways and strained his neck to look at Dean’s face, shifting him further up onto his own shoulder until he could feel his breath on his own cheek. And he could feel it. Barely there, but he could feel the warmth of it, even in the icy of the water. He turned his head and whispered into the shell of Dean’s ear, lips catching against the icy flesh. “Stay with me, Dean, just stay with me, please.”

...moi je l’ai à pleurer.

J’ai perdu mon ami sans l’avoir mérité...

He pressed his lips to Dean’s cheek and it was so cold… or maybe that was just his own lips. He could not let him go, he would not let him go… never.

 _The water had been clear and icy cold in the deep pool by the waterfall in the hills above Tortuga, the quiet place where he had learnt to swim. His mother was there. Encouraging him, watching him from the bank… but her eyes were full of tears… why was she so sad?...’_ _C'est bien, Cas, comme ça. Nage mon caneton,  nage pour ta vie_ _’’_

...À la claire fontaine m’en allant promener...

J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle que je m’y suis baignée.

He relaxed back into the water, rolled and rocked by the waves, gentle as a cradle.

’ _Nage pour ton amour, mon petit prince…’ His mother was reaching out to him and he gasped with a last effort, thrusting his legs towards the bank, one arm outstretched as he struggled to clasp her straining fingers…then suddenly she seemed to be closer and she gripped his wrist. Her eyes shone, her smile beautiful and triumphant, ‘Mon brave, c’est bon.’ From somewhere he found the strength to grip back and pull himself to the safety of his mother’s arms._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is A La Claire Fontaine
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Castiel's mother tells him :
> 
> C'est bien Cas, comme ça. Nage mon caneton, nage pour ta vie  
> That's it Cas, swim my little duckling, swim for your life  
> Nage pour ton amour, mon petit prince…  
> Swim for your love, my little prince  
> Mon brave, c’est bon.  
> My brave boy, it's good.
> 
> As ever thanks to my good buddy Hermit9 for translating my illiterate French ramblings into something sensible.


	25. Interlude Twelve

 

**10 Days Later**

**Port Royal**

Sir Michael Meacham sighed happily. Earlier that week, using an article from the American Journal of Medicine given to him by his clerk, Whittingham, he had been able to convince his wife of the health benefits of mountain air for the female complexion. He was not entirely sure that the Blue Mountains knew quite what they had coming, but it was safe to say, that while Sir Michael Meacham dearly loved his wife, her absence for a few weeks would surely allow his fondness for her to grow exponentially.

He rested his hands on his desk, admiring the view through his office window. Nothing could dampen his spirits today he decided as he stared at the brilliant, unblemished azure of the sky. He opened his desk drawer, the fresh delivery this morning of a dozen of his favourite port had further enhanced his mood. Even now his housemaid was decanting a bottle into his best crystal decanter, but Sir Michael had decided, with several weeks of freedom and the luxury of a dozen bottles he could afford to forego some of the niceties and drink his first few glasses straight from the bottle… After all… why wait? It could breathe in the glass as easily as it could in the air between bottle and decanter.

He had taken his first warming mouthful when there was a heavy knock at the door. He pushed the drawer shut and set his brown glass tumbler (a tip from a fellow husband on the art of secret port drinking) down before him. Licking all trace of burgundy from his lips, not wishing to waste any into his napkin he called, “Enter.”

Whittingham entered, behind him, twitching nervously the petite figure of Shurley carried a number of document sleeves. His mornings work apparently. Shurley set the pile of documents on the corner of his desk and withdrew with a nervous little bow.

“Sir,” Whittingham opened smoothly. His hand resting on the first dossier. He piled two more on top of it swiftly and set it on the far right-hand side of the desk. He then set two more files next to them and finally a small pile of parchments. “Before you, I present to you,” he set his hand on the pile of three, “the reports from the three surviving ships of the St. Lucie Incident. This…” he let his hand hover over the first of the single dossier, “is the report from the most senior surviving officer aboard The Dreadnought and finally the list of survivors.” He indicated the final dossier.

Sir Michael smiled amiably at his clerk. With half a glass of port already soothing him from the inside and the promise of as much more as he wished for to follow, Sir Michael was perfectly happy to let Whittingham take the lead.

He listened in silence as the clerk summarised the contents for him. The loss of the Dreadnought sat squarely on the shoulders of Captain Alastair Brown, lost at sea. Last seen by the onboard smith, a veteran of some distinction, as he made his own way to the lifeboats. His lack of judgment: Recruiting the saboteur and deserter Milton aboard his ship. His insubordination: failing to report the capture of the pirate Captain. His glory seeking: attempting the capture of the Black Impala himself instead of waiting for the arrival of the three naval vessels sent in support.

Sir Michael listened as Whittingham droned on, safe in his happy port fueled haze. “... so in short sir, I think congratulations are in order…”

Suddenly aware that he needed to pay attention again, Sir Michael cleared his throat and nodded sagely.

“Your foresight in warning the admiralty about Brown and his arrogance and dangerous largesse will surely not go unnoticed. It is only a shame your letter regarding your concerns did not reach them in time for him to be relieved of command…” Sir Michael blinked, his eyes focussing and becoming shrewd, “... but at least the Impala was sunk along with the Dreadnought and both the pirate Smith and his ally Milton are among the dead.”

“I feel, Whittingham, in this instance,” Sir Michael commented dryly, “that the admiralty can be spared any castigation. I am not entirely sure that my warning letter about Brown’s conduct reached _me_ in time, let alone our superiors.”

“Quite right, sir,” Whittingham smiled. He bowed and took his leave. “I’ll make sure you are not disturbed for the rest of the day, sir… while you read through the reports.”

 

 

 


	26. Epilogue

**The Mouth of the St. Lucie River, the night of the incident**

 

The smoke drifted over the surface of the water in thick swirling patches. The sound of the burning ship and the shouts and whistles drifted in snatches of sound with it. Benny had steered them towards the shore and Sam could just make out the dark outline of the landmass against a sky that was beginning to tinge with the softest hint of apricot. A boom and shudder running through the Dreadnought pulled his attention back and then all he could see was the brilliant outline of the leaping flames, even when he closed his eyes.

He realised Benny was mumbling something and he strained to hear, before recognising it as a prayer for the dying ship or more specifically the crew.

“What should we do, Benny?” He kept his voice low, aware how the wind could snatch his words and carry them over the water.

“We wait and we watch,” Benny said simply. “As soon as it’s safe, they’ll raise the signal again. Till then we stay out the way.”

Sam bit his lip. “Those screams and shouts…”

“There’s nothing we can do, Sam. We row into that mess we’ll either get swamped or arrested. The crew will be manning their own boats.”

“Did we really do all that?”

He felt Benny’s hand on his arm, eyes still too fire struck to be able to see. “Your conscience troubles you, but there was trouble aboard before our little trick. They had seen our diversion certainly and turned sail this way, but we did not inflict the first damage. The first explosion rocked her long before… in fact… “

His words were lost with the sounds of a ship approaching at speed. The crash of bows through the heavy sea and shouted orders and whistles. Benny seized the oars and Sam followed his lead as they turned their boat’s prow towards the sound, so as to avoid being capsized by the wash.

The ship loomed out of the dark like a moving cliff, a huge dark void in that momentarily blocked out the heat and light from the other burning ships. The heard the voices then. Tran calling out fire warnings and the clump and hiss as sailors scrabbled with sand and firemats to stamp out the burning embers. Her bulk shifted, banking sharp and the remnants of the fireship crashed under her hull. There was a brief scraping sound and then a whump like a cellar door closing and the Impala had sped past The Dreadnought leaving a black eddy of clean air through the flames and smoke, seconds later there was an enormous bang, louder than any that had come before, enough to make their ears sing with the echo of it. Something flew into the air vertically over the Dreadnought, her mast tumbling with a snapping sound. For a few seconds the world seemed to pause, silent except for the slapping of waves and then the debris started to fall into the water around them. Some of it fizzing as the flames extinguished upon entering the water.

Suddenly Sam was catching at the oars. Snatching his own and Benny’s up with an urgency that made him hopelessly inefficient. He had to get into the thick of that mess. His ears rang and hissed, so much so that he could no longer hear the calls of the men in the water and he shook his head panicking, wanting to hear again that which he was sure he had heard just before the explosion.

He turned to look at Benny, highlighted by the flicker of the flames, which scorched the whole scene now. Intense and luminous in the darkness. He could see Benny’s mouth moving, but his voice sounded like something under water.

“I heard him,” he shouted. “I heard Dean. We have to go to him, he’s there somewhere. I heard him.”

Benny’s softened with a look of sorrow that made Sam want to slap him.

“Don’t pity me. I’m not being foolish. I swear to you. I heard him, Benny, please I did.”

Watching Benny’s mouth he could just about make sense of his words. “You know he’s not aboard. He didn't make it down the coast in time, Sam.”

“Not on the Impala,” Sam said desperately. “Before she came. I heard him before she came. I swear to you. He’s here.” He could tell Benny did not really believe him, but he saw his shoulders slump in a sigh, then his muscles were bunching and he took the strain on his oar. Together they rowed around the hulk of the ship. Suddenly Benny’s demeanour changed, he paused at his sculling and grabbed Sam’s arm again, pointing urgently towards the burning wreck. Silhouetted against the flames, poised on the listing deck, two very tall figures straightened into view, before dropping towards the water. One had looked very much like the well-built and shapely figure of the lieutenant, but the clincher had been his bow-legged companion.

They dropped from the crest of a wave, their view blocked by the swell. They began again to row towards the spot, both frantically scanning the water for another sighting, adjusting their course and pulling hard on the oars. Sam could feel the wood ripping into his palms, but he gripped tighter still and pulled to match Benny. The sea fought them, in places they could see the shapes and outlines of rocks glistening up at them from the raised sea bed, white caps of waves breaking. All the while the fire roared and the wind lashed at their faces, it had started to rain again, the surface of the water hissing with the fall of droplets. Out to sea they heard the sound of ships pipers calling to one another. Benny stiffened beside Sam and he realised they must be navy ships for him to react so.

They had one more clear sighting of them as a wave threw the two men high. Dean must be lay across Castiel’s chest. Only the white of their faces and hands showed through the darkness. They struck hard in that direction, it seemed to Sam that the gap was never closing. Like a nightmare, where the distance just keeps stretching further no matter how hard you run. The Dreadnought was beginning to sink.

“We cannot be too close when she goes,” Benny shouted, “She’ll pull us down with her.”

Thankfully Cas must have had the same thought, for he seemed to be swimming away from the wreck. A man tried to climb aboard and with a reluctant look, Benny shoved him away with his oar. Sam threw him an oilskin float, earning himself a grateful nod from Benny.

They were the other side of the Dreadnought from the wreck of the fireship, away from the shallows and the sea was losing its malevolence, the roll of the waves flattening. He saw them then briefly in the darkness of the sea, but then the space seemed to go empty. their faces and hands fading to blackness. With a cry of alarm, Sam realised they were going under. He launched himself from his seat and into the water towards where he had last seen them, grabbing frantically under the inky black surface. His leg brushed against something in the darkness and he dropped his hand down, fingers spread open and grabbing. The water was cold and it stung his raw palms, but he could feel something brushing against his hand, so he gripped hard and pulled. Ahead of him, a hand appeared outstretched, coming out of the water like Excaliber in his illustrated Adventures of Camelot.

Benny grabbed at the elbow just below the surface and heaved. The hand gripped back and with a roar of effort he dragged himself upright. Castiel appeared from the water, he looked barely conscious, but both his hands were gripping tightly, one in an overlap hold up Benny’s arm and the other clamped across Dean’s chest, fingers pressing deeply into the meat of his shoulder.

Sam relinquished his grip of Dean’s hair, slung an arm over the gunnel of the boat and grabbed at his brother’s leg instead. Awkwardly, for it seemed that Castiel would not relinquish his grip, no matter how they tried to rouse him, they manhandled the two of them into the boat, and then Benny was dragging Sam in. He flopped into the boat, water streaming from his hair.

Behind them with a gargantuan groaning sound, the Dreadnought broke in two and with a sliding rush her stern disappeared under the water. Benny grabbed at the oars and sat himself on the middle of the bench. He sculled hard in the direction of the shore, while, his own chest heaving with the effort to catch his breath, Sam carefully checked both Dean and Cas for signs of life.

 

**Aboard the Black Impala**

 

 

Bobby grabbed a handful of charts and stowed them hurriedly into a canister, sealing it with the large cork stopper and chucking it onto the pile of personal belongings, fittings and furniture grabbed from about the ship. Crewmen were grabbing armfuls of the detritus and throwing it overboard in a frantic race against the lightening sky. Tran was high in the rigging again, watching for signs that the navy ships were heading towards them. For now, the Impala was just one more dark shape camouflaged against the landscape, the brilliance of the flames from the Dreadnought rendering them invisible, but the advantage would not last long and they needed to be gone, leaving only a slick of possessions bobbing on the surface to convince the salvagers that the Impala too languished in a watery grave.

Not daring to risk any more delay, Bobby made sharp hand signals to Garth and they both moved through the ship sending sailors to their stations so that the Impala could slip quietly away. It seemed the sea was on their side, a bank of sea mist so thick it was approaching a promotion to fog was rolling down from the North, swirling tendrils combining with the smoke to form an impenetrable avalanche rolling toward them over the surface of the water. They waited until it was almost upon them and then under its cover sailed silently and serenely to the South.

 

 

**The Inlet Beneath the Four Winds Inn several days later**

 

 ****The sand stretched rippling gold into black in both directions. A full moon, low in the sky hovered above its own shattered reflection on the obsidian of the sea. It was a beautiful backdrop to the leaping fire and criss-cross of burning embers in the pyre.

Bobby pulled Ellen a little closer, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders under his arm. The night was not cold, but they both shivered as they watched the fire consuming the figure, now a broken silhouette amidst the red, gold and blue licks of flame.

“A tad dramatic, don’t you think?” Ellen commented softly, melting into Bobby’s comforting bulk. “A funeral pyre for a ship’s figurehead.”

Bobby merely grunted. The warmth of the fire, emphasizing just how chill the air was at his back. It reminded him of England. Bitter cold autumn nights tending beacons and signal fires. He had thought many times over the last few weeks about taking his new family and returning, but his old life was gone and he had had his fill of the sea and its perils. All he wanted now was the warmth of home and hearth. And home to Bobby was the beating heart and wild, wilful nature of the woman at his side and their ragtag family of misfits.

Ignoring his lack of response, she pressed him. “Surprised he left it to burn alone, I figured he would need to see it to the bitter end.”

Bobby’s smile was an almost there affair. A faint curve to his lips. Finally, he spoke. “My boys had better things to do.”

 

**The Four Winds Inn**

 

A hearty fire crackled in the hearth. It was the only sound in the room aside from the occasional turn of a page or the scratch of one or the other of the two nibs active in the room. The table was covered with a scatter of navigation charts and books covering many subjects over which two heads were bowed hard at work. One blonde, one chestnut brown. The cotton of the long-abandoned sampler slowly crisped and browned from the heat of the flames, where it lay forgotten in the nook beside the grate.

 

**Port Solace**

Ash leaned contentedly back against the sea wall. He had spent the last week in port, using his contacts to load up a supply ship with equipment and resources. Tomorrow he would assist a crew of five to sail their supply ship to work on a nameless brigantine, currently careened on a narrow spit of sand with barely an acre of jungle, awaiting repairs and a refit.

The setting sun before him painted the sea the reds and golds of a roaring fire. It was a view he taken pleasure in many times. Below him, he heard a little cough. "Mr Ash, sir," a young voice called. "Mr Garth sent me to ask you whether you intended to sit on that hard old wall all night, or whether you might want to attend the town with him and seek a beverage or two."

Ash looked down at the former harbour master's boy. "You run tell, Mr Garth, I'll see him in the Duke's Head and then you best be getting back aboard. Captain Lafitte will be none to happy about you running about the town when there's a naval vessel in port. Last thing he wants is to have you pressed. I think to buy you out from yet another master might be an ask too far."

Jesse grinned up at him and gave him an awkward little salute.

When the rounded tip of the sun dropped below the horizon, Ash strolled out of the harbour and headed up through the town. He took the long route to the Duke's Head. It carried him up past a small well-kept lodging house on the corner of two streets. He knocked politely at a side door and handed the man inside a small bag of coin and gave him a grateful little salute, before whistling his way cheerfully back down over the cobbles.

He politely acknowledged two Navy men who cut across his path as they left the local brothel. They staggered slightly, clearly a share of rum carrying them onward, as they walked a way ahead of him. He smiled to himself at their drunken conversation about the deserter in their hold and his wild talk of time aboard a pirate vessel. Mumbling about the navy slitting his pillow's throat. Screaming out for a carter in his sleep. His mutterings and twitchy behaviour had convinced their Captain: The man was clearly scurvied and not worth a crew spot. The navy law was simple in such a case, if the man could not or would not retake his post, summary execution. This was good news. A hanging meant an extra day in port and another night of rum and carousing. They raised a toast to Cole and staggered sideways into another tavern to replenish their drinks.

Although he himself found it most satisfactory, Ash decided there was little point in passing the news on to anyone else.  His friends had made it quite plain, despite everything that had happened they had no interest in seeking revenge. Well, one of them had made it quite plain they had no interest in any vengeance trails, the other had agreed with a loved-up look of indulgence. But then, in Ash's humble opinion, too much heart had always been Cas' problem and Dean would do just about anything to keep Cas happy.

 

 

 

 


	27. The Coda -

**Tortuga**

He opened eyes lazy with snatched sleep. His skin prickled with goosebumps where the soft cotton eiderdown had been thrown back and the direct heat of the fire was blocked by a dark silhouette pressing a fresh log into the fire. It crackled and spat as bugs and air pockets swelled and popped in the heat. There was a definite nip to the air, even in the snugness of their room. The first stages of winter even in this mild climate, made the evenings bite.

He sighed and the figure in front of the fire moved raising from a squatted position to standing with easy grace. Firelight shadows dancing and kissing across the muscles as he moved. The firelight had the right idea. He lifted one lazy arm from under the covers and snagged the nearest hand. Sliding his fingers to interlock and trap, pulling his saviour back into the comfort of their warm bed.

“What are you doing?” the response was mumbled at him even as he drew his target closer the better to reach all that enticing skin. “I don’t want to risk you getting cold. You’re still weak from…” the words were cut off with a moan, as he took the opportunity to nibble at the bunch of muscle where neck and shoulder joined, using his splayed hand to guide the warm body under his fingertips back onto the softness of the mattress.

“Weak am I?” He slid his hand over angular hip bones and left his hand resting on the flat soft span of stomach, fingers gently caressing the wire of curls. He continued his nipping progress along the curl of neck, until he could suck and bite at an earlobe. Murmurs which could be construed as pleasure or dissent falling from soft lips, even as the neck arched to give better access. Pleasure then. Consent. Not dissent. He ignored the slight tingle of his own barely healed skin, letting his hand slide lower, agonisingly slowly, feeling with some satisfaction the developing hardness barely glanced by the inside edge of his fingers as he deliberately slid his finger tips even lower to massage into the flesh under the mat of hair, using the curved web between his knuckles to provide a miniscule hint of friction, enjoying the answering twitch and the hastily stifled hitch of breath.

“Perhaps, I should stop…” he murmured suddenly, stilling his hand and hovering with his lips just a fraction shy of the skin, enjoying the shivered response, “Not wear myself out. You know… while I’m busy recovering and all..."

His Lieutenant gave a growl and moved with such speed that he gasped before beginning to chuckle. He found himself pinned to the bed, their fingers still entwined on one side, a firm hand flat about his other arm, just above the ring of discoloration on his wrist. Cas dropped firmly onto his lap, thick muscled thighs pressing up his sides. He had a moment to enjoy the full glory of the gleaming godlike creature hovering above him in the soft amber light, before Cas swooped, claiming his prize. “You,” he said stealing kisses and nipping at the corners of his mouth, his lips and his earlobes between words, “are incorrigible, bull-headed, annoying, stubborn and utterly insatiable.”

He drew back and they stared at each other, a little breathless. Somewhere beneath him he felt the pull of one of the deeper wounds on his back, but he didn’t care. He would take any amount of pain and irritation for this view. “I love you.” He said it so suddenly he wasn’t sure who was more shocked by the admission. For a moment they stared at each other, before mischief sparkled blue.

“I know.”

Dean’s lips parted in surprise as his mind staggered a skip back “...you _know?_ ” he spluttered around the grin forming on his face. “What kind of a response is that to my heartfelt declaration?”

“A perfect one.” Cas declared, lips twitching. “I confess I don’t quite know where it came from, but…” He squealed, as Dean snaked an arm free of his grip and dug him in the ribs, falling back giggling and helpless as he was toppled from his position of dominance. Dean rolled over onto him and they both groaned at the sudden welcome pressure and friction. They rutted shamelessly for a moment, just enjoying winding each other into a frenzy, but then Dean drew back.

He used his thumb to stroke Cas’ cheek, before kissing him gently and slowly, working his mouth open, nibbling his lower lip and then moving his attention slowly to his neck and ears. Switching between soft lapping licks, the nip of his teeth, just sharp enough to blemish, a rub of stubble and the softest brush of his lips. It drove Cas crazy. A few minutes of this teasing sensual play and he would be a breathless, quivering mess.

But Cas had other ideas. He rolled them back over and ordered calmly. “Hands.”

With a cock sure grin, Dean let his hands fall away and slid them up the bed over his head. The routine of presenting his bandages for changing at request had left a residual instinct to present the soft flesh of his wrists for Cas’ perusal on command. There was nothing medicinal about the brush of paper soft lips on the sensitive skin though and he shuddered as the echo of the touch flushed through him.

“You do know…” he mumbled as Cas cupped his face with hands far too elegant and gentle for a sailor, pressing lips to his forehead.

“Hm?” he felt the questioning hum in the contact of their chests, deep and rumbling. For a moment he lost himself in the tumble of sensations, as Cas moved tantalisingly over his face, never once stopping the soft flexing grip of his fingers, faces pressed close, all nuzzling, hot breath and the butterfly light tease of lips.

“... strictly speaking I outrank you… ow!”

Cas sat back, smothering his grin, face impervious, eyebrow arching towards the roots of his hair. The blush spread across Dean’s chest and neck, giving new definition to the patchwork of bruises and marks still lurking just the surface even after rainbowing down through spectrum of healing.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Cas crooned patronisingly, reclaiming and rebranding another of the many Alastairisms that tortured them in their dreams and extended into their cosy world like the cold fingers of a draught. “I am an officer and a gentleman. I will always outrank you.”

His haughty demeanour was somewhat spoiled, by the filthy moan he gave as Dean thrust his hips upwards pressing himself against the sensitive flesh, rubbing and rolling his balls, sending pulsing shockwaves of pleasure rippling outward.

“And that was definitely a pirate move,” he admonished before soothing the pulsing throb where he had bitten Dean’s shoulder in retribution for the ‘outranking’ jibe with the gentle press of his lips and tongue.

No longer able to resist the urge to touch, Dean slid his arms back down, using the backs of his knuckles to make lazy trails down Cas's sides and over the angles of his hips. God, he would never get enough of those hip bones. He gripped lazily at Cas' haunches and this time let his thumbs trace the line of them. Cas sighed contentedly and rolled his lower body sending sparks of friction, sharply pleasing but short of enough. With new-found energy Dean sat up, forcing Cas to fall back at an awkward angle, arms locked to stop himself falling backward with his legs still bent under him either side of Dean's lap.

So far they had been careful, Cas constantly conscious of Dean's recovery and Dean constantly conscious that they had not really discussed the mechanics of who would do what to whom. And if he was being totally honest, it had scarcely mattered up to this point both of them content with taking their pleasure as they had been. The sheer joy of being together and safe and in the same bed had been enough. But they were finally completely alone, this remote villa hiding in the sprawl of Bourganvillea was theirs and theirs alone. For a moment, he thought about the ship.  From the perspective of the navy vessels watching events unfold from the seaward side, it had seemed that the Impala had rammed the Dreadnought, the two exploding in a massive fireball, that rocked the observers even at such a safe distance. And although Bobby had been all for it, Dean could not bring himself to scupper her. It seemed such a pointless act of vandalism, so instead, they had carefully removed the jumping buck. His baby had been reborn. He and Castiel had been sailed as the first paying customers on the maiden voyage of The Phoenix. Their new names neatly scribed, side by side in her passenger log. Mr. D. Winchester, for Smith, The Righteous Man was now dead and he could be himself again, and his companion Mr. C. Winchester. For Lieutenant Castiel Milton had to die too, and somehow it seemed only fitting. Dean was finally free of to live his life, Alastair was dead and he was no longer a wanted outlaw. Could the fates truly be this kind?

"Hey," Cas said softly touching his cheek, "Come back to me, Dean."

He snapped his attention back, staring at the beautiful man in his lap. 

"Where did you go?"

"Nowhere important," Dean smiled softly, grabbing Cas' hand and kissing his fingers. "Now where were we...? I believe you were about to suggest I let you debauch me..."

Castiel rolled his eyes and Dean's heart gave a little skipping beat. How the hell had he reached the point where rolling eyes and a tilted-headed squint were all it took to turn him to wet clay? He tried his most appealing look, but Cas and his eyebrow were unrelenting. "Ok, ok," he conceded, "I was about to suggest it."

 

 


End file.
